


You're my Wonderwall

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: You're Gonna be the One That Saves Me [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Church Family Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Trauma, F/F, F/M, Fraternities & Sororities, Friends With Benefits, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Obnoxious levels of dudebro, Praise Kink, RvB Rare Pair Week, Sexuality Crisis, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 11:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: Tucker's never met anyone he's hated as much as York. York's never met anyone as annoying as Tucker. It's a good thing they're both really attractive, otherwise they'd never spend this much time hooking up. But they're totally not in a relationship, okay? Despite what their long-suffering friends think.Featuring college shenanigans, copious amounts of alcohol, and Tex being a badass.





	1. two dudes, sittin' in a hot tub, five feet apart cuz they're not gay

“This is a terrible idea,” mutters Wash, gripping the steering wheel, eyes firmly fixed on the winding road in front of them. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Relax, it’s gonna be great.” Tucker leans back in his seat, opening the passenger side window; it sticks halfway. “It’s just a party.”

“A _frat_ party –”

Tucker snickers. “What, are you scared of a kegstand? You know all that ‘just say no’ crap in high school was bullshit, right?”

“It’s not that bad, honestly,” says Carolina from the back seat, with dry amusement. “Besides, you’re not even drinking, anyway.” 

“Yeah, because I can’t legally drink, and neither can you two.” Huffing in annoyance, Wash takes a curve about twenty percent slower than he needs to. All right, so one of the main roads out of campus is basically a canyon, but that doesn’t mean he has to drive like a grandma. Tucker almost regrets talking him into DD’ing. “Besides, I don’t think it’s very responsible to be partying when the semester’s barely started.”

“Dude, now is the best time to be partying, before you actually get assignments and shit. Besides, how else are you supposed to meet girls?”

“Hey,” protests Carolina.

“Yeah, but you’re not _that_ kind of girl,” says Tucker, twisting around to face her. “Know what I mean?”

Her eyes flash dangerously. “No, Tucker, I don’t –”

“Save it for later, I’m trying to concentrate,” grumbles Wash.

Even with a stick up his ass, he’s still Tucker’s roommate, and antagonizing him probably isn’t a good idea. With a sigh, Tucker turns back to the front; in the rearview mirror he sees Carolina fold her arms across her chest. They’ve got at least fifteen more minutes of awkward silence before they get to the house, broken only by Wash’s phone giving directions. Tucker pulls his headphones out of his pocket and settles in, wishing heartily he’d pregamed.

\--

“Hey!” yells Tex, bottles of tequila in hand, and gives York a one-armed hug. He grins and pulls her against his side, stepping back to let two other people walk through the door past them. “Nice house!”

“Thanks, it’s like North’s dad’s summer home or something!” York shouts back over the music. “Keg’s in the backyard.”

“Oh sweet.” Tex is in all-black, heels and tank top and leather miniskirt, steel plugs gleaming in her ears. “Oh, by the way, my little sister’s coming, she just started as a freshman, she said she’s bringing a couple friends of hers too.”

“Little sister?” says York, grinning.

Tex yanks him down by the shirt collar so suddenly he nearly loses balance. “Listen to me, Elahi,” she says. “Touch Carolina and I will break every finger on your hand.”

“Off limits?” squeaks York.

Tex’s eyes narrow dangerously. “ _Very._ ”

\--

Wash pulls up to a two-story, gable-roofed house, the siding painted a cool gray. Loud music and shouting spill out of the open front door, and cars line the driveway and length of the street. They end up having to park a block away. Despite being half a foot shorter than him and in heels, Carolina strides fast enough down the street that Tucker has to hurry to keep up.

As they head up the front steps a woman hurries forward to greet them. She’s tall and tan and leanly muscled, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her black sequined top glittering, and Tucker might be a little bit in love. “Hey, Lina!” she says, and hugs Carolina, and then leaves her arm draped around Carolina’s shoulders as she turns to face Tucker and Wash.

Tucker calculates furiously – friend? good friend? _girl_ friend? – while Carolina smiles wryly up at the blonde woman. “Hi, Tex,” she says. “How’s the party?”

Tex rolls her eyes. “Boring. Everyone wants to play beer pong.” She turns her steel-bright eyes and knife-sharp smile on Tucker, holding her fist out. “Hey, I’m Tex. Lina’s big sister. Nice to meet you.”

Despite his threesome hopes withering slightly, Tucker grins and fistbumps her back. “I’m Tucker,” he says. “Hey, are you a carpenter? Because you’re making my banana stand.”

Tex and Carolina both stare at him. From behind Tucker, Wash quietly but clearly mutters, “Jesus Christ.” Tucker just grins and raises an eyebrow at Tex, refusing to be ashamed –

Throwing her head back, Tex laughs. “All right,” she says. “Points for trying.” And she looks over at Wash.

Hands shoved in his jeans pockets, Wash shrugs. “David Washington, you can call me Wash,” he says stiffly.

“All right, Wash,” says Tex, eyes gleaming, and beckons them towards the house. “Come on in, guys.”

 Despite what Tex seems to think, the party is _banging._ The bass from the music reverberates in Tucker’s bones, it takes him approximately five seconds to get a beer (some kind of pretentious hipster brew, but he’ll take it), and holy shit there are _so many hot chicks._

“ _Dude,_ ” says Tucker in Wash’s ear, “I was totally right, I am so getting laid –”

Wash grunts, noncommittal, his dark eyes following Carolina through the crowd. “I’m your ride home, you know.”

Tucker scoffs. “I’m not going home with you, come on.” He claps Wash on the shoulder and dives in.

\--

If it wasn’t for Tex’s warning, York would be all over Carolina. She’s petite, with vivid red hair and big green eyes and these incredibly toned legs. Two guys came with her, one a tall Asian kid who looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple days, and the other a handsome black guy with long dreads. Neither of them look like they’re putting the moves on Carolina, so maybe Tex put the fear of God in them as well. “What _is_ it with Church women and being ripped as fuck, anyway?” York says to North, leaning an arm on his shoulder.

“Huh?” says North, from the depths of his solo cup.

“Never mind.” York surveys the party with satisfaction. “Dude, it’s really great your dad let us do this here.”

“What?”

York shouts over the music, “I said, it’s really great your dad let us have this party here!”

“Oh. Yeah.” North shrugs. “He figures it’s better South and I get hammered here and not have to drive anywhere.”

York doesn’t understand why North’s so blasé about this; he still vividly remembers the struggle that was convincing his mom to let him have sleepovers in middle school. “Hey, we can use the hot tub, right?”

“Yeah, just don’t spill anything in it.”

“Sweet.”

\--

A few hours later, Tucker’s made significant progress through the crowd and several drinks. Along the way he’s met the hosts (twins, tall and white as mayonnaise), hit on a few girls (no dice yet, but he’s _trying,_ okay, and there’s still time left) and now he’s outside in the warm darkness of a California night and – there’s a hot tub? _Hell_ yeah.

It’s currently occupied by two girls, one with doe eyes and a messy bun, the other with dangly earrings and a thick dark braid, and they’re both babes. There’s a dude in there too that they’re talking to, but whatever. Tucker strips down to his underwear and hops in, sighing happily as hot water envelopes him. “Hey,” he says to Dangly Earrings. “How’s it going? Looks like this hot tub got a whole lot hotter, if you know what I mean. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

Dangly Earrings gives him a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Oh my God,” says Doe Eyes, with a nervous laugh.

“Dude, seriously?” says the guy, lounging across from him.

He’s attractive, unfairly so. Tucker’s not gay, but he can still appreciate a good-looking guy, and this dude’s got golden-tan skin stretched over rippling abs and pecs, and broad shoulders, and the kind of smile that belongs on a movie star from the fifties.

It pisses Tucker off. He doesn’t need competition.

“Hey, man,” he says coolly. “What’s up?”

The guy shrugs. “Not much. You having a good time?”

Beside Tucker, the two girls whisper to each other. Shit, he’s gotta reclaim their attention – “Not as good a time as I’ll be having in an hour,” and he winks at the girls.

“Oh my God,” says Doe Eyes again, this time with pronounced disgust. She gets up in a hurry, water trickling over her body, and grabs a towel from the deck by hot tub. “Come on, Kayleigh, let’s go.”

“Woah, hey, ladies,” says the guy, but they barely give him a look as they grab their clothes and head inside. Tucker watches them go with regret. Laughing ruefully, the guy rubs the back of his neck. “Shit, dude, looks like you struck out.”

“Hey, man, the night’s still young,” snaps Tucker.

“Sure, it’s all good.” The man turns that Cary Grant smile on Tucker, and it kind of works, and Tucker hates it. “I’m York, by the way. I’m roommates with North, this is his dad’s place.”

“Tucker,” he responds grudgingly. No way is he giving this douche his first name.

“Freshman?”

Tucker seethes silently, he doesn’t want that to be _obvious._ “Yeah. What about you?”

“Junior.” York stretches out comfortably, resting on the rim of the hot tub. Yellow light from inside spills out onto the deck, highlighting his eyes and hair. “Where’re you from?”

Oh boy, here it goes, the _what’s your name/where are you from/what’s your major_ that Tucker’s been spouting all week. “Detroit.”

“No shit, really?” says York. “How’re you liking BU so far?”

“It’s pretty good so far.” Tucker has the feeling this guy does not actually care about what he thinks. “Been busy.”

“Yeah, the first week and orientation is kind of a rush. Pace yourself, there’s like a million things you can get involved in and you’ll be burnt out by midterms if you’re not careful.” His voice is warm, friendly, patronizing, graciously bestowing the advice of the older generation upon the younger.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Tucker. He’s had enough; he gets up and out of the tub, maybe flexing a little just to show off that he’s way more built than the average freshman. “See you around, bro.”

York lifts two fingers from his forehead in a salute. “See ya.”

\--

“Hey, Tex,” yawns York from the couch. “Who were those guys who came with Carolina?”

Tex, barefoot and seated on the floor, frowns at the TV screen, mashing game controller buttons furiously. “You mean Wash and Tucker?”

“Sure, them.” Tucker, that was the black guy. York scrubs a hand through his hair, rubs at his eyes. He feels thick and heavy with exhaustion, it’s at least two in the morning and he should probably sleep, but the guest room is upstairs and that’s just way too far away. “Are they her friends?”

“Yeah, I think they’re from the boys’ dorm next to hers or something.” Tex hammers at the controller, her character on the screen fighting a giant lizard with a whole lot of loud noises and flashes. “Why?”

“No reason.” York settles himself more comfortably on the couch, trying to ignore the recurring mental image of Tucker climbing out of the hot tub. It’s not fair that someone who’s that much of a fucking idiot is so good-looking. “Just curious.”

\--

“What an _asshole!_ ” says Tucker, leaning on Wash as he unlocks their building door. “I can’t believe him –”

“Shhh!” hisses Wash, pulling him inside. “You’ll wake everyone up –”

“ ‘Are you a freshman?’” mocks Tucker, in his best douche voice. “I bet he was laughing at me inside the whole time…”

“I know, Tucker.” Sighing, Wash helps him up the stairs. They’re difficult. Tucker doesn’t remember stairs being this difficult. “You told me on the drive home.”

Drive home. There were three of them. “Where’s Carolina go?” asks Tucker, spinning around and nearly tripping over his own feet.

“In her dorm, asleep, which is where _I’d_ like to be.” Wash steadies Tucker, getting him down the hallway towards their suite.

“Ohohoho,” says Tucker, grinning. “Bow-chicka-wow-wow –”

“No. No. Stop.” Wash blushes, wrestling with the door the suite. So many doors to get through. Those last few tequila shots are not sitting well in Tucker’s stomach. “Okay? Just stop.”

Wash manages to get him inside the suite and towards their room. Tucker can hear Caboose’s snoring clearly from behind his closed door. His brain flops over, going back to that _dickhead_ York. “Probably thinks I’m a loser,” he mumbles, one arm draped over Wash’s shoulders.

“Yeah, he probably does.” Finally in their room, Wash pushes Tucker to the bed. He collapses onto it, feet hanging off the edge, face smushed in the pillow. “You’re not going to puke or anything, are you?”

“That’s what she said,” mumbles Tucker. “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” Being horizontal is nice.

Wash sighs heavily. “All right.”


	2. ah fuck, i can't believe you've done this

Muttering under his breath, Tucker circles the parking lot yet again, eyes peeled for a spot. He’s got literally two minutes until his Intro to Advertising class starts and he doesn’t even know where the classroom is yet, he refuses to be late to his first class session of the semester –

Aha! Someone’s leaving! Tucker pulls up as close as he can and flicks his blinker on, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “Come on,” he breathes, as the SUV navigates out of the spot incredibly slow. Are they doing a thirteen-point turn or what? “Come on, come on…”

Finally, the SUV is clear and starts driving off. Tucker rushes forward to claim the spot when a bright green Lamborghini zooms up from the other side of the SUV and into the parking space.

“Motherfucker!” Tucker says, slamming on the brakes. Fuming, he switches off his blinker and for a moment just sits, debating what to do. He’s about to drive off when the Lamborghini door opens and out steps York, dressed like _a complete asshole_.

He’s wearing a golden-brown polo shirt, white Chinos, white sneakers, baseball cap turned backwards, and sunglasses, carrying a pen and a notepad in one hand. Tucker knew he was a douche, but this is so much worse.

Without so much as an apology wave, York hurries through the parking lot towards the building where classes are. Blood pressure steadily rising, Tucker looks at his car clock. Fuck. He’s officially late for class.

He ends up having to park halfway down the damn hill and run back up to the building. Panting, he finds his classroom and opens the door and oh God, it’s his worst nightmare, the professor was mid-sentence and now everyone’s staring at him. “Hi,” says Tucker, vividly aware of how he’s sweating and breathing hard. “Sorry. I couldn’t find parking.”

“Yes, parking can be tricky,” says the professor dryly – Professor Ahn or Aim or something like that, Tucker doesn’t remember. Tall and skinny with round glasses and a lot of gray hair. “I suggest you arrive with time to spare in the future. Pick up a syllabus on the way to your seat.”

Nodding, Tucker scans the room for an available seat and oh, _fuck._ Fuck him. There’s only one free desk, and directly behind it, lounging carelessly, hat on the desk, is York.

“So,” says Professor Ahn or Aim, returning to the projected screen, “going back to required materials, in addition to the textbook you will need to purchase the online workbook…”

Fucking hell. Tucker’s not even in the mood to check out the rest of the class for hot girls. He just avoids eye contact with anyone and walks back to that one stupid seat, determinedly not looking at York as he sits down.

Within half a minute it becomes clear that Professor Ahn or Aim intends to read out the syllabus word for word. Tucker leans back in his chair, resigning himself to an hour of nothing.

They’ve reached “Classroom Behavior Expectations and Guidelines” when something hits his back chair legs. York. Tucker grits his teeth and stares determinedly at the whiteboard.

Another little kick, and the sound of shifting. Tucker refuses to turn around, he won’t let it get to him –

“Hey, man,” whispers York, close behind him. “Did I take your parking spot?”

Tucker can’t even call him out on it, they’re in the middle of class, and settles for giving him an annoyed look over his shoulder. “Kinda, yeah –”

“Oh shit, sorry bro –”

“Young man in the back,” calls Professor Ahn or Aim, pointing at York. “Yes, you.”

York sits up straight. “Yes, sir?”

“Pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

\--

“You thinking about auditioning?” says a familiar voice.

Tucker looks over to his right to see Tex, leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a sharp smile on her face. “What?” he says.

She nods at the bulletin board he’s staring at. “Auditioning. For _Midsummer._ ”

“Uhhh…” Truth be told, Tucker _was_ kind of entertaining the idea, but he’s not admitting that to Tex. She’s way too cool. “I dunno. What are you doing?”

“Working, I’m on break.”

She’s dressed in a black polo and jeans with a walkie-talkie on her belt and an earpiece in. Given that they’re right outside the theater, Tucker puts two and two together and guesses, “Theater tech?”

“Yup,” says Tex, and chomps her gum _._ “You should audition. We need some new blood. Shake up the pretentious theatre kids.”

“Me? Shakespeare? Come on.” Tucker smirks down at her. “Sounds boring as fuck.”

Tex shrugs. “They’re setting _Midsummer_ in a strip club slash gay bar. Lights and glitter and everything.”

Oh. Tucker looks back at the audition list, reading over the list of characters. “Who do you think I should audition as?”

Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Tex steps up beside him. “This one,” she says, tapping _Puck – a fairy servant of Oberon. A mischievous sprite who helps or plays tricks on people depending on their mood._ “I think you’d have a lot of fun.”

\--

ADV 101 is already easily York’s least favorite class. It’s at nine a.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays (gross), it’s up in the marketing/communications building which is on top of the hill and therefore parking is _shitty,_ and he’s a junior in a class full of freshman and sophomores. Including that Tucker kid.

(Which. Not that York’s _upset_ by that so much as… irritated? Something about Tucker keeps nagging at York, demanding his attention. Doesn’t help that in literally their first class he sat himself literally right in front of York, close enough that York could smell his piney bodywash.)

So anyway, it’s week two and York’s already preparing to zone the fuck out, he only needs to pass this class with a C anyway. And that’s when Professor Ahn announces for their final project of the semester, they’re going to be working in assigned pairs.

York slumps down further in his seat, annoyed. If he could work on whatever it is alone he could slide by on minimal effort, but now he’s going to be paired with some overachieving, bright-eyed freshman and he’s going to have to _work_ –

“Partners will be assigned by last name,” says Professor Ahn. “I have the class roster posted up here. You will be paired with the person opposite you in the order – for example, the student in the number one spot is paired with thirty-four, two with thirty-three, et cetera. Any questions?”

The class mumbles no. Glancing over at Tucker, York sees him looking miffed as well, tapping his pen on the desk.

“All right, well…” Professor Ahn steps back to lean against his podium, gesturing to the printed list taped on the white board. “Find your partners.”

Reluctantly, students start getting up and walking over to the whiteboard, breaking away to pair off. York waits until the knot of people has cleared a bit before sighing and getting to his feet. All right, he thinks, scanning the list for his last name. Elahi, that puts him at number five, which means his partner is number twenty-nine, and… _Tucker, Lavernius._

York’s not sure whether to be annoyed at fate for putting them together or sorry for Tucker that he has to live with the first name Lavernius. No wonder he goes by his last name.

Speaking of, Tucker’s walked up to peer at the list too. As his eyes run down the names, his expression tightens, going blank. Doesn’t seem like he’s too happy with the situation either. A ripple of irritation goes down York’s spine. What, is he not good enough to work with?

“So,” he says to Tucker, with a bit of a smirk to show he doesn’t care. “Looks like we’re partners.”

“Yeah,” says Tucker shortly. Maybe he’s still pissed about York taking that parking spot? That was like a whole week ago, get over it, dude.

After class, York stops Tucker in the hallway, pulling close to the wall so they don’t block the flow of students walking in and out of classes. “We should probably exchange numbers so we can coordinate on this project, yeah?”

Tucker’s eyes, dark brown, gleam dangerously. “Dude, if you wanted my number all you had to do was ask –”

Refusing to be intimidated, York grins back. “Only if you’re okay giving it.”

If there’s a way to make unlocking your phone a challenge, Tucker somehow manages it. Well, York’s not going to let that pass. “ _Lavernius,_ right?” he says. “Or should I just put ‘Vern?’”

Tucker glares at him, and all right, he’s kind of pretty when he’s angry. “Tucker is fine.”

York one, Tucker zero. “All right,” says York, smirking a little.

But then Tucker counters with, “Yeah, because _York_ isn’t a weird name at all,” and rolls his eyes. “Did your parents hate you or something?”

Needling York is one thing, but he draws the line at insults to his moms, and before he can stop himself, “No, it’s because my dick reminds people of the Empire State Building,” comes out of his mouth. At least two other students walking by give him funny looks.

Tucker snorts. “If yours is the Empire State Building then I’m the fucking Burj Khalifa,” he says. And before York can retort, he continues, “Gotta go, late for my next class,” and saunters away. York watches him go, stomach tight. Fucking freshman, thinks he knows everything, thinks he can just take a dig at York like that.

It’s a couple seconds before York realizes he’s staring. Shaking himself irritably, he turns around and heads back down the hallway to the parking lot outside. Pulling out his phone, he messages Tex, _Dude u would not believe what that tucker guy just said to me_

Her response is almost instantaneous. (Face With Rolling Eyes )(Face With Rolling Eyes )(Face With Rolling Eyes )(Face With Stuck-Out Tongue And Winking Eye )(Popcorn ) _okay what_

York nearly smacks into the door because he’s too busy texting. Recovering, he walks outside, squinting at the morning sunlight, and walks down the sidewalk towards his car, relating what happened word for word. _honestly what is this guys problem with me???_ he finishes with. _idk why he hates me so much_

_¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ dunno dude_

_ur not helpful_

\--

As much as Tucker hates York’s fucking green Lambo, it does have a use. Mainly, it lets Tucker know where York is so he can avoid him.

“I’m just saying, you’re kind of stalking him,” says Wash.

“I am _not._ ” Tucker, having turned on his heel at seeing York’s car in the cafeteria parking lot, marches back up through campus towards the rec center for food. “I’m avoiding him, there’s a difference.”

Wash, unimpressed, trudges alongside him. “You have his schedule memorized.”

“Shut up,” snaps Tucker, ears burning. “I just don’t want to run into him, all right?”

“All right.” Wash sighs, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders. “Whatever you say.”

\--

Being on stage feels right in a way Tucker can’t really define. The lights are bright and white-hot on him, the empty seating barely visible. From in the front row, the theater director and a couple other people sit, watching him. Rolling his shoulders, Tucker grins, stepping forward. “Hey.”

One of the people judging, a woman in her sixties with short grey hair, raises her eyebrows. “Hello!” barks the theater director, who looks more like a retired army sergeant than Tucker would have ever expected. “State your name and rank!”

“Uhhh…” says Tucker. “Lavernius Tucker… freshman?”

“And you’re auditioning for the role of Puck, correct?” Seriously, this guy says everything at top volume, maybe he’s hard of hearing.

“Yeah.” Tucker clears his throat, resisting the urge to fidget.

“Proceed!”

Okay. This is it. Taking a deep breath, Tucker summons every bit of nonchalance and smart-assedness he can muster. “Thou speak’st aright,” he says, and fingerguns and winks at the director. “I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon and make him smile…”

\--

Wash is laying on the couch, frowning at his laptop, when Tucker enters the dorm common rom. “How’d it go?” he asks distantly.

“Dude.” Tucker plops down on the chair beside him, swinging his bag down to his feet, and grins. “I’m pretty sure I got the fucking part.”

“Really?” says Wash, dragging his eyes away from the screen. “How d’you know?”

“Okay, I don’t _know,_ ” Tucker admits. “But I was hella better than everyone else, and also I think the theater director liked it. He’s fucking weird, though. And not in an artsy-hipster-clove cigarettes and weed-kind of way, he’s like someone literally took a drill sergeant and made him a theater director.” Tucker frowns, blinking. “I don’t even remember his name, pretty sure the grips just called him ‘Sarge.’”

Wash is turned back to his laptop. “You’re right, that is definitely weird.”

Asshole, Tucker’s telling him all about his super great audition, he could at least pretend to be interested. “What’re you looking at, anyway?” he demands, craning his neck.

“Nothing!” Wash closes the tab hastily, before Tucker can see anything. “Just reading something.”

“Dude, porn? I’m not gonna judge. Unless it’s like, some weird furry shit, in which case I’m gonna judge a little –”

Going red, Wash snaps, “It’s not porn.”

Uh-huh. Sure. Tucker grins, hefting his bag up and getting to his feet. “Whatever you say.”


	3. back at it again at krispy kreme

The assignment for ADV 101 is to talk to interview a local small business about their advertising strategy and analyze it according to the principles in chapter blah blah blah. York frowns at the assignment sheet without reading it. God, this is going to be such a _hassle_ for a class that he only needs for GE credits, stupid intro level courses –

“So,” says Tucker, sitting across from York. They’re in class, Professor Ahn having told everyone to “split into groups,” their desks pushed together. “What business do you want to talk to?”

York shrugs. “I dunno.”

Leaning forward, Tucker squints at him. His dreads are pulled back in a ponytail today, and his t-shirt is an eye-watering shade of greenish-blue. “We have to pick _something._ ”

“Yeah, I guess.” York slides forward further in his chair,  shifting his baseball cap around on his head.

“ ‘You guess’ – this project is _a third of our final grade,_ ” snaps Tucker. “I gotta do well on it –”

“Who cares?”

Tucker gapes at him. “I care!”

Folding his arms over his chest, York sighs and leans back in his seat. “Dude, it’s one class, I get that it seems like a big deal now but honestly –”

“Listen, motherfucker, I have to keep my GPA above a 3.0 if I want to keep my scholarship,” says Tucker, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “So don’t tell me it’s not fucking important.”

He sounds genuinely angry, rather than just piqued, and York’s stomach curls uncomfortably. “Athletic scholarship?” he asks, hoping to mollify him.

But that just angers Tucker more. “What, you assume it’s athletics just because I’m black? Holy shit, dude –”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant –”

“I fucking worked my ass off for this scholarship, okay, not that your rich white Lambo-driving ass would understand –”

“I didn’t mean it like that, okay? Jesus, dude!” York keeps his voice down, uncomfortably aware of the looks other students are giving him. “I dunno, I just figured, you look pretty fit.” His voice dies to a mumble by the end as he realizes he basically called Tucker ripped.

Looking a little less upset, Tucker sits back, shoulders relaxing. “Okay,” he says at last, slowly.

“And for the record, I’m not white,” mutters York, looking at the desk.

“What?”

“I said, I’m not white. One of my moms is Palestinian.” York fiddles with his pen. “Not everything is about race, man.”

“Easy for you to say,” snorts Tucker, but it’s subdued. “ ‘One of your moms?’ ”

“Yeah, I got two.” York waves his first two fingers at Tucker. “They’re pretty rad.”

Tucker frowns at him. “Two, like, mom and stepmom, or…?”

“They’re married to each other.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Tucker’s eyes widen. “Neat.”

“Yeah.”

Several moments of silence stretch on. York shifts awkwardly. “So, like, do you have any ideas…?”

“Oh, uh…” Tucker scratches the back of his neck, and then his face lights up with a mischievous grin. “Hey, there’s that one sex shop, you know, in that boutique mall area –”

“Come on, the professor’s never gonna allow that,” dismisses York.

“Dude, it’d be funny –”

York snorts. “It’s not gonna happen.”

“Well, fine.” Tucker glares at him. “Do _you_ have any ideas?”

By the time class ends, they still haven’t settled on something they both like. “We gotta pick something by next week,” says Tucker, as they leave class.

“I know,” mutters York. He’s starving, his one goal right now is to get to the law school café and get a breakfast burrito before they start serving lunch. “I’ll think of something.”

Tucker says “Sure you will,” and strides off, once again leaving York feeling both irritated and antsy.

\--

Tented booths ring the main plaza of campus, each one decked out with banners loudly declaring the fraternity or sorority running it. Walking alongside Wash, Tucker eyes them, trying to see if any of the fraternities look like a group he’d join – or if any of the sororities have hot chicks. Some of them do.

“Tucker, Wash!” says a vaguely familiar voice, and Tucker looks over at one of the frat booths. It’s the guy from the party, one of the blond twins, smiling at Tucker and Wash. The banner on his booth reads ΠΦΛ.

“Oh, hey,” says Tucker, walking over. Fuck, what was this guy’s name? Probably something super generic, like Dan or Steve or –

“Call me North,” he says easily, reaching out to shake Tucker’s hand. Tucker returns his grip, feeling strangely like he’s meeting someone’s dad. “Good to see you again. How’s everything going?”

“Uh, good, I guess,” says Tucker. Beside him, Wash scrutinizes the flyers on the table that are advertising fraternity events. “What’s up over here?”

“Not a whole lot.” Smiling, North sticks his hands into his corduroy pants pockets. “Thinking about joining Pi Phi Lambda?”

“Uh, maybe,” hedges Tucker, looking over the photos they have on display as well. Looks like the ultimate preppy frat bro fest. Pastel polos and yachts and paintball and – Hang on. He’d recognize that smarmy movie star smile anywhere –

“Tucker!” Grinning, York walks up beside North; he’s a full head shorter than his Nordic giant of a friend. “I didn’t take you for a frat kind of guy.”

What’s that supposed to mean? “Just looking,” snaps Tucker. Wash is still engrossed in their materials, a little wrinkle of concentration in between his eyebrows. “See y’all.”

He walks off, leaving behind a bemused North and a smirking York. Fraternities are stupid anyway, it’s just paying a bunch of money to be friends with some dumb rich kids. Tucker resorts to scoping out the sororities.

A few minutes later, Wash catches up to him, a flyer for Pi Phi Lambda clutched in his hand. “Seriously?” says Tucker. “You’re going to rush with them?”

“I might.”

“Dude, they’re all assholes.” Tucker drops his voice to a mock-whisper. “They’re going to _brainwash you._ ”

Wash snorts, unimpressed, as they make their way across the plaza to the cafeteria. “Sure.”

“No, seriously, why would you want to join?” demands Tucker. Antisocial Wash is literally the last person he would pick to join a fraternity, least of all Rich Boy Party Club.

“Their charity work looks good,” says Wash, not meeting Tucker’s eyes. Tucker frowns at him, trying to remember what Pi Phi Lambda’s chosen cause was. Brain cancer, or something like that. “I dunno. I just thought I’d check it out.”

“You know if you join, they’ll haze you,” says Tucker, merciless. “Make you do embarrassing shit like paint yourself green and sing ‘All Star’ in the middle of a class. And that's if you're lucky. Sometimes, people _die._ ”

“I can take it,” says Wash grimly, hefting his backpack up.

“Jesus Christ.” Tucker opens the caf doors, follows Wash in. “You sound like you’re joining the army.”

\--

When York enters the apartment, wearing last night’s clothes, he’s met with North leaning against the kitchen counter, eating cereal and dressed for running. “Oh, hey,” says York.

“Hey,” says North, through cereal crunches. “How was last night?”

“Fun! Fun.” York rubs at the back of his neck, still nursing a hangover. “Yeah, it was good.”

North watches him shrewdly, the morning sunlight picking out strands of gold in his hair and gleaming on his pale eyes. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I just…” York sighs, slumping down into the couch. “I dunno, she left really quickly after we woke up, she said she had work, but who has work at nine a.m. on a Saturday?”

“Retail?” offers North.

“Maybe.” It’s not that Amber left early that bothers York so much as the way she did. He’s not dumb, it was just a hookup, he’s not expecting breakfast in bed and promises of love, but it would have been nice to have something more than a vague “See you sometime.” “Anyway. Still got laid, at least.”

\--

Heart pounding, Tucker hurries down the hallway to the bulletin board outside of the theater where casting announcements are posted. The cast list for _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ went up an hour ago, but he was in class, he’s been dying –

A handful of students stand around, craning their necks and shuffling to all get a chance at reading the cast list. As Tucker approaches, one girl – brown hair, beanie, oversized sweater, cute but not blowing his mind – turns and walks past him, looking upset. Guess she didn’t get a part.

“ ‘Scuse me,” says Tucker, pushing through to get to the bulletin, “ ‘scuse me, just gotta –” Finding the cast list, he scans it furiously, where’s Puck, where’s –

“YES!” shouts Tucker, and punches the air. A couple of people back away from him, muttering. “Hell yeah!” Whooping, he dances out of the crowd and does a few victory pelvic thrusts. He got the part! He got the part.

“Getting in character already?” drawls Tex.

Tucker whirls around. She’s leaning in a doorway, dressed in crew blacks, chewing away on a piece of gum. “Dude,” says Tucker. “Do you work here, like, every day?”

“Pretty much.” She offers Tucker a fistbump, which he proudly returns. “Congrats.”

“Thanks!”

\--

For the project, York and Tucker end up settling on a local frozen yogurt place. York’s not thrilled about it, but Tucker seems weirdly enthusiastic about going down there for interviews until he lets slip that one of the girls who works there is really cute.

Which is fine, York’s all for letting Tucker go and do all the work of talking to the people there. Except Tucker doesn’t have a car.

They drive out of campus with York taking the turns a little sharper than he needs to, revving up the engine a bit more. He wants Tucker to be as green as his car with jealousy. By the time they’re off campus and on the highway, heading toward the local shopping center, he thinks it’s working. It’s hard to tell, considering Tucker isn’t talking to him and staring out the windshield.

This is boring. “What’s your major?” York asks.

Tucker clears his throat. “Marketing and communications.” After a moment of awkward silence, he says, “What about you?”

Stopped at a red light, York taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Philosophy.”

“Philosophy?” says Tucker incredulously. Okay, fucker, it’s not _that_ weird a major. “What are you going to do with that?”

“I dunno.” York shrugs, stepping on the gas as traffic inches forward. It’s a beautiful day in Malibu, the sky as blue as the ocean, traffic flowing along the highway. Maybe he’ll go surfing later. “Still haven’t figured that out.”

Tucker gapes at him. “You’re a junior, what do you mean you don’t have it figured out? Where are you going to work?”

York shrugs again. “Probably my mom’s law firm for a bit. I was thinking about maybe going to law school.”

“I should have known you’re a lawyer’s kid,” mutters Tucker, as they pull into the shopping center parking lot.

York glances at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Yeah, right. Eyes narrowed, York circles, looking for a parking spot. “Sure, whatever.”

“Have you ever actually had a job?” Tucker demands.

“What – of course I have!” Slamming to a halt to avoid hitting a bleach-blonde lady and her little dog, York glares at Tucker. “I worked at a shawarma place for like, two months before my sophomore year –”

“Oh my God,” says Tucker.

Wheeling the car around, York pulls into an empty spot. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing –”

Tucker makes a frustrated noise. “No, it’s just – Jesus, dude, talk about privileged –”

“I’m supposed to feel _guilty_ I haven’t had to work?”

“No!” shouts Tucker. He glares at York, jaw flexing, eyes snapping. “That’s not the point, but no wonder you don’t give a damn about any of this, you haven’t had to hustle since you were sixteen just to get here –”

Heat rises in York, filling his chest, tickling his throat. “What, you think you’re so much better than me?”

“I don’t think I’m better than you, _you_ think you’re better than _me!_ ”

“That’s because I am!”

York’s shout reverberates in the car. He stares at Tucker, and Tucker stares right back, jaw working. Almost immediately York regrets what he said, but like hell he’s taking it back. Tucker’s expression is deep and dark and furious and deep inside York stirs the need for something he refuses to define.

Finally, Tucker breaks eye contact, and without a word Tucker gets out of the car, slamming his door behind him. York kills the engine and steps out as well, sighing out into the open air.

They walk in tense silence to Chorus Froyo. Two employees are there, one the owner (Vanessa Kimball, mid-30s, self-starter entrepreneur with a sharp jaw and brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail) and the other the girl behind the counter, who is very clearly Tucker’s crush from the smarmy look on his face. She _is_ cute, York has to admit, freckles and blonde curls and a shy smile.

Setting aside his simmering anger, York smiles easily at Vanessa. “Hi, Ms. Kimball, I’m York,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Oh, yes, from Bloodgulch University,” she says, shaking his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks for doing this interview,” says Tucker stiffly, as they sit.

“No problem.”

Leaving it to Tucker to launch into their questions (“What are the key components of your advertising strategy? How much of your budget do you reserve for advertising? What emotions are you trying to inspire?”), York leans back in his chair. Looking over at the girl behind the counter, he winks.

She giggles, blushing. Score one for York, he thinks, and settles in more comfortably.

It only takes about fifteen minutes to get through their questions; Vanessa is straightforward and concise with her answers. At the end York thanks her for her time, and she shakes his and Tucker’s hands again and disappears into the back, leaving York and Tucker alone with the girl behind the counter. While Tucker’s still occupied with putting away his notebook, York slides up to the counter, hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “Hey,” he says to the girl – Katie, her nametag says. “What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Sorry?” she says, big brown eyes turned on him. She’s got a bit of a lisp. It’s kind of endearing.

“You know, of froyo. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Um, chocolate.”

“All right, then I’ll get a medium cookies and crème, and a small chocolate,” says York, and smiles warmly at her. “Whatever toppings you want.”

“Oh!” Katie giggles again. “That’s okay, you don’t have to –”

“Yeah, but I want to.” York leans against the glass barrier. “It’s on me.”

By this time, Tucker has walked up to them. “Hey, girl,” he says, with a grin. “Be you could make my ice cream. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

Katie turns scarlet, staring at him. Wincing, York stands straight, pulling his credit card out of his wallet. “Medium cookies and crème, no toppings, please.”

In mortified silence, Katie hurries to get his frozen yogurt and ring him up. Mercifully, Tucker also stays quiet. “That’ll be six-fifty-nine,” she says quietly.

“Sure thing.” York pays, and then drops an extra twenty in the tip jar. “Sorry about that,” he whispers, and walks out of Chorus Froyo with his yogurt, Tucker close behind. No sooner has the door closed behind them than York rounds on him. “Dude,” he says. “Have you ever actually talked to a girl?”

“Yeah!” says Tucker, indignant. “Loads of chicks!”

“Okay, let me rephrase. Has that ever actually _worked_ on a girl?”

“ _Duh,_ of course it has.” Tucker sounds entirely too defensive to be honest. “It works all the time.”

York snorts and shoves a spoonful of froyo in his mouth, heading towards his car. “Girls in Detroit must have way lower standards than California ones,” he mutters.

“Wow, okay, first of all fuck you,” says Tucker, hurrying to catch up with him. “Second, I’d like to see you do any better.”

“Dude, I _was_ doing better until you charged in.”

Grumbling incoherently, Tucker waits by the car for York to unlock it. York is very briefly tempted to get in and drive off without him. “Bet I still get laid more than you do,” says Tucker under his breath.

Doubtful. York’s at four and counting for the semester, and they’re only three weeks in. “Sure, bro.”

“I do!” says Tucker as they get in the car, very convincingly.

“Yeah.”

“No, seriously, just the other day –”

“Whatever, dude, I don’t need details about your sex life.” But even as York says it curiosity stirs him, what _would_ Tucker’s sex life be like, and wow, okay, he’s not going to think about that right now. He turns the key in the engine with maybe a little more force than necessary. “Let’s go.”


	4. what the FUCK is up, kyle?

Tucker trudges back to his dorm, nettled. It’s more than the argument he had with York in the car, or his disastrous attempt at flirting, or the simple fact of York’s entire easygoing existence. It’s all of those and none of those, and as Tucker unlocks the dorm door, he kind of wishes York was back just so he could throw a totally better retort at him.

“Hey, Tucker,” says Wash from the common room couch. Carolina sits cross-legged on the opposite end, flash cards in hand. “Dude, what’s up?”

Tucker pauses, halfway across the room. “Huh?”

Eyes narrowed, Carolina says, “Yeah, you look really pissed-off.”

Sighing, Tucker shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just got back from doing group project interview shit,” he says grudgingly. “With York.”

“Ohhh.” Wash leans back into the couch, the frown clearing off his face. “Say no more.”

“Wait, York? York Elahi?” says Carolina, looking from Wash to Tucker. “That guy my sister’s always hanging out with?”

And here Tucker thought Tex was cool. “Yeah, why?”

Carolina shrugs. “Nothing, it’s just a small world, I guess.”

“More like a small school,” says Wash. “There’s only three thousand people in undergrad total, we’re going to run into people all the time.”

Tucker, not feeling particularly like discussing York any further, asks, “What’re you studying for?”

“Humanities 111,” sighs Wash, looking ruefully at the cards Carolina’s holding. “First test is in a week.”

“Dude, you know she uses the exact same tests every year, right? I’ve had like three sophomores offer me the notes already.”

Carolina exchanges a look with Wash. “Which sophomores?”

\--

As Tucker and Wash walk up to the laser tag place, there’s already a crowd of guys standing around the entrance, both Pi Phi Lambda members and other freshmen who are rushing. Tucker squints, trying to pick out carefully-styled brown hair and a gleaming movie star grin, but York’s nowhere to be seen. Good, thinks Tucker, squashing down a traitor thread of disappointment.

“Hey, guys!” says North, waving, as he catches sight of them. “Wash, good to see you again. Tucker, looks like you’re going to rush PFL after all?”

Tucker shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “Figured I’d give it a try.” Really he’s just here for free pizza and laser tag, but North doesn’t need to know that.

“Awesome, I just need you guys to sign in here,” and he hands them a clipboard. Tucker takes it, dutifully only writing his name and not scanning for York’s.

After they’ve both signed in, Tucker hangs back with Wash, not particularly inclined to mingle with a bunch of gung-ho bros in polo shirts and boat shorts. “I still can’t believe you want to join these guys,” he mutters. Wash jabs his elbow into him.

A few more guys show up and then North and two other PFL leaders start ushering everyone inside. The building is a reclaimed warehouse, with a small front office, but with big glass windows in the walls. Through them, Tucker sees a rock climbing wall and what looks like a dope obstacle course with big targets set in one wall, and what has to be a dodgeball court with nets hung around it. “Dope,” says Tucker, and Wash nods in agreement beside him.

A door to the side opens, letting out a strong smell of greasy pizza, and – oh _no_. “What’s up, everyone?” says York, walking out with a laser tag employee beside him. “We all excited for some laser tag?”

“Yeah!” shout the guys – mostly freshman, there’s maybe twenty or so total, but it’s a tight fit in the front room all the same. Tucker refuses to join in; he’s annoyed, not at York, but at himself for the brief surge of adrenaline that hit him when he first saw York.

The laser tag employee talks them through the safety rules (which Tucker fully intends to ignore) and then they’re in a darkened room, picking up the heavy vests off the racks on the walls while epic music filters through the speakers. Tucker goes right for a vest with blue lights on it. “Blue team, baby!”

Wash snorts as he pulls his vest over his head, also blue team. “Does it matter?”

“Hell yeah, blue team is obviously the best.” Tucker takes a sneaky glance around to see what team York’s chosen. He’s standing over by North, laughing at something, green lights dancing on his vest and the gun in his hand.

Good. Tucker smiles grimly, unclipping his gun from his vest and holding it ready. He’s going to outshoot York or die trying.

“Combatants, ready your weapons,” says a recorded female voice. “Enter the arena.”

Tucker files into the arena with the rest of the guys. Pounding music blares from the speakers overhead, techno and heavy on the base. The arena is dark, a maze lit only by blacklight, with splatters and stripes of glow-in-the dark paint to map out walls and steps and windows, occasional mirrors set into the walls. “C’mon, let’s find our base,” mutters Wash, heading in.

“What? You’re going to camp? That’s boring!” Tucker knows where his place is, and it’s on the front lines. No one ever became a hero by staying back.

“Fifteen seconds until the round starts,” says the announcer.

Tucker darts through the maze, searching for a strategic position, the lights on his vest and gun dancing. Falling in with a couple other blue team members, he finds a corner by a ramp and flattens himself against the wall, ready, waiting –

“The round will begin in five – four – three – two – one –”

Alarms blare and the music gets even louder. Heart pounding, Tucker grips his gun tighter, waiting for the first person to run up the ramp towards them.

“Over there!” shouts one of his teammates and Tucker whips around, firing furiously at red enemy lights. But the lights on his own vest flash white and his gun doesn’t make any noise – he got hit, dammit. Tucker ducks behind the wall to wait for his gun to recharge, but as he does the other two guys run off, yelling.

Fine, he’ll do it on his own! Tucker charges into the maze, looking for either Green or Red Base. He runs into a group of Greens and they fire at him and he fires back, but he gets hit, and he runs off again. Between the music and the lights and the yelling Tucker has never felt so alive, and he’s  never felt so much like a _badass_ , ducking and weaving like a pro, sneaking around corners to shoot people in the back, laughing gleefully as their curses rise up. In the dark it’s so hard to tell who’s who (he runs into Wash a couple times) but he likes to think he got York once or twice –

And then all too soon - it feels like he barely got to play - his gun and vest flash, powering down, and the announcer says “Match over.” Grinning, sweaty, heart pounding, Tucker files back into the vest room with the others, shucking off his gear.

Wash comes up beside him. “How’d you do?” Tucker asks.

Shrugging, Wash says, “Not bad.”

“I think my gun was malfunctioning, it kept acting like I was getting hit for no reason, did that happen to you?”

“No, not really.”

“Dude, I wanna see the scores.” Tucker heads out of the room to where a large screen hangs on the wall, clustering around it with the other guys. He squints up at it, trying to read, and then his jaw drops. “Not bad? Holy _shit,_ Wash, you blew us out of the water!”

“Oh,” says Wash, hands in his pockets. “Huh.”

“Are you like, secretly a Marine or something?”

“No.” Wash scowls. “I mean, I’ve had some practice with a gun, but that’s not – that’s not the same…”

“Hey, who’s Wash?” shouts a guy – brown hair, average looking. Wash reluctantly raises a hand. “ _Dang,_ dude, nice score!” A couple other guys clap Wash on the shoulder and he grins a little, shamefaced.

Standing on tiptoe to see over heads, Tucker scans the list for his own name. Okay, he’s in the middle of the pack, not great but definitely not bad. And York is… Right above him, the difference in their scores barely anything.

Tucker death glares at York, who is whispering something in North’s ear. North snorts wryly and York grins, resting a hand on his shoulder, before turning and catching Tucker’s eye.

Hastily Tucker rearranges his face into a neutral expression as York saunters over. “Hey, man,” he says. “Looks like I beat you.”

“By like, one hit,” snaps Tucker.

York chuckles. “Well, we’ll have another round after we eat, we can have a rematch,” and he _winks_ at Tucker.

Resisting the urge to growl, Tucker follows him into the room with the pizza.

When round two starts, Tucker (once again on Blue Team) plays it strategic. Sneaking instead of running, hunting down people from behind, scoping out the bases and shooting anyone who comes near. At one point in his covering the map he finds a ramp up to a little second level, where another Blue Team member crouches with his gun held at the ready, peering through a window. It’s North.

“Oh, uh, hi,” says Tucker, and then, “Are you sniping?”

North grins up at him. “Yeah, c’mere.”

Crouching down beside him, Tucker looks through the window and sees a corridor with a mirror in the wall down below them, at an angle to North. “Are you just waiting for people to pass by?” he asks.

“Close,” says North. “Wait and see.”

Tucker doesn’t really want to sit here, every second he stays still is a second he could have spent racking up points. But almost immediately red lights appear in the mirror, the reflection of someone’s vest. His gun aimed at the mirror, North fires, and the lights flash white – a hit.

“Woah,” says Tucker. “How did you do that?”

North cracks another grin. “The guns fire lasers, they just bounce off the mirror at the same angle and hit the target,” he says. “No one ever sees me coming.”

So that explains all those mystery hits Tucker was taking. “Holy shit, dude, that’s awesome.”

“Thanks.”

Tucker leaves him to it to charge back into battle, determined to pull off a mirror trick shot of his own. The match has already been going for quite a bit, he can’t have many minutes left, and he charges around a corner with his gun at the ready –

And collides straight into someone, Green Team. “Whoa!” says York, staggering, and Tucker stumbles into the wall. “Jesus, watch where you’re going –”

Tucker swings his gun up and shoots him straight in the chest. York’s vest beeps, the lights flashing white.

York sighs heavily. “Really, dude?”

Shrugging, Tucker says, “Can’t let you beat me.”

The glow off the neon paints is just enough for Tucker to make out York narrowing his eyes. In the UV light his shoes and socks and t-shirt glow brilliant blue-purple. “You better run before my gun reloads.”

“Hmmm…. nah.” Tucker aims again, waiting for when York’s cooldown finishes and he becomes a viable target again. “How about _you_ run?”

York’s stance shifts, his shoulders tightening as he holds his gun ready. “I don’t run.”

His lights flash green for the briefest second before Tucker fires again, hitting him. York fires uselessly at Tucker a couple times before hissing in frustration. “Dude, _seriously?_ ”

“Seriously,” says Tucker, and grins at him. “And I will stand here for the rest of the match and shoot you, too.”

Rolling his eyes, York stalks past him. “Whatever.” As he reaches the end of the hall his vest goes green again and Tucker gets in one last parting shot before darting off behind another partition.

The match ends almost immediately afterwards and Tucker practically throws his vest off in his hurry to see the screen. He did so much better this time around, he _has_ to have beaten York.

In his haste he gets to the screen before the scores have even loaded. “C’mon,” mutters Tucker, staring up at the TV. “C’mon, please –”

The scores load in. There’s Wash at the top, again, and North is not far behind, thanks to his trick shots. Tucker frantically reads the list, where’s his name, where is it –

He’s in seventh place, a definite step up from last time. But York is in sixth.

“Well, would you look at that,” says York, smooth and smug, stepping up alongside a fuming Tucker. “Maybe if you’d stuck around to shoot me a couple more times you’d have beaten me.”

“Fuck you,” snaps Tucker automatically.

“I wouldn’t talk like that if you’re trying to get into PFL.” York’s voice is mild and amiable, but there’s a wicked spark in his gray-blue eyes. “Just saying. Since I’m roommates with the vice president and all.”

“North’s the vice president?” says Tucker. “Then who’s the president…?”

York’s grin is one hundred percent shit-eating. “I am.” And he walks off to congratulate Wash on his shooting.

\--

First rehearsal for _Midsummer_ on Thursday night is a disaster, to put it lightly. Tucker stumbles over his lines, tripped up by unfamiliar words and rhythms, the actors playing the romantic couple of Hermia and Lysander are clearly uncomfortable with each other, and Sarge’s method of directing isn’t so much guiding and suggesting as it is yelling orders. By the time rehearsal ends Tucker is cranky, hungry, and uncomfortably aware of the amount of homework he still needs to get done.

“Well, all right, you’re all dismissed,” grumbles Sarge. “I want you all here smack on time next week! And where in tarnation are my notes?”

Assistant Director Simmons says, “Under your chair, sir.”

“No, they’re not –”

Wiping sweat off his forehead, Tucker hurries off stage. Someone tried calling him forty minutes ago, his phone buzzing like crazy in his pocket, and considering it’s almost eleven at night now Tucker’s concerned that whatever the call is, it’s not good.

“Hey, good job!” says Bitters, who is playing Lysander, as he bounds up beside Tucker. “Really good rehearsal –”

“Yeah.” Tucker forces a smile as he unlocks his phone. “Yeah, you too –”

A missed call from York, and a text message. Frowning, Tucker opens the message up.

_Hey man can you come pick wash up? Think he had too much to drink_

“Fuck,” sighs Tucker. He knew the fraternity rushing process was going to involve alcohol at some point, but he’d kind of hoped Wash would keep a handle on himself. He dials York, pacing in place in the stage wings as the phone rings.

“Hello?” says York. There’s an awful lot of background noise, almost clearly a party. “Tucker?”

“Yeah. What’s up with Wash?”

York exhales heavily. “I dunno, he started puking, I thought it was ‘cause he couldn’t hold his liquor but like, he’s barely drunk anything, I think maybe he might be sick. Can you come get him? I don’t want him puking all over the house.”

“I don’t have a car, remember?” says Tucker. That sucks, if Wash has a stomach bug or something. “Can’t you bring him over?”

“Uh, no, because _one_ , I’m the president and I’m supposed to be here, and _two_ , I’m buzzed, I can’t drive,” says York in a startling admission of responsibility. There’s a definite slur to his words, now that Tucker’s listening for it. “Dude. Please. Just come get him? I’ll owe you.”

“Yeah, you definitely will,” sighs Tucker. “Text me the address,” and he hangs up.

Shit. He needs a car. Who can he ask? Hurrying around backstage, Tucker finds the stage manager Grif, sitting in his office with his feet up on his desk, drinking a soda. “Hey, Grif,” he says. “Is Tex still working?”

“Nah, dude, she went home like an hour ago,” says Grif, staring at his computer. Looks like he’s watching a gaming stream.

“Right.” Who else, who else – Spinning around, Tucker calls Carolina. After a few rings she picks up.

“What is it?” says Carolina, sounding groggy.

“Can I borrow your car? It’s important.”

“Wha… Tucker, what?”

“I need to pick up Wash from a rush thing, and I don’t have a car,” says Tucker.

“Why?” Carolina sounds sharper and more alert. “Is something wrong?”

“Either he’s hammered or he’s sick, York’s not sure, just apparently he’s puking all over the place. Carolina, please.”

“Hang on, I’ll come with you, I’ll drive,” she says. Tucker hears rustling and things moving on the other end of the phone. “Where are you?”

“The theater.”

“Hang tight, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

And true to her word, Carolina pulls up in front of the theater only a few minutes later. When Tucker throws himself into the passenger seat he sees she’s dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, no makeup on her face. “Were you asleep?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was,” she says, pulling out of the parking lot. “But it’s fine.”

“How early do you go to bed? It’s not even eleven.”

Carolina shrugs. “I have to be at the gym by six if I want time to work out before my eight a.m. class.”

Gaping at her in horror, Tucker says, “ _Carolina._ Love yourself.”

She just gives him an odd look. “Where are we going?” she asks.

Tucker reads her the address. It’s not far, thankfully, only just through the canyon. “Thanks for driving,” he says.

“No problem,” she says with a little smile. “It’s a rescue mission.”

Snorting, Tucker says, “Saving Private Washington.”

Carolina laughs; it’s a nice laugh, gentler than Tex’s cackle. “Carolina and Tucker on a daring expedition to rescue Wash from the deadly clutches of Pi Phi Lambda.”

“Up against their worst enemies, _frat bros._ ”

“Armed with the deadly weapons of beer pong and popped collars.”

The address turns out to be an apartment in a walled community, apartment buildings and houses alike trim and neat. Tucker texts York that they’re here as Carolina hunts for the specific apartment. When they find it, there’s two dark figures outside the front door, lit from behind by the porch light. York stands with his arms folded, pacing, while Wash sits on the step with his arms folded over his knees and his head bowed.

“Hey,” says Tucker, getting out of the car and hurrying over. Wash looks up as he approaches and wow, he does not look good, pale and clammy with red-rimmed eyes. That’s a stomach bug. “Wash, you good to go?”

He grimaces, staggering to his feet via sheer force of will. “Yeah.”  

“Hey, thanks,” says York. He looks vaguely uncomfortable.

Tucker says, “Don’t thank me, thank Carolina,” and puts a hand out to steady Wash.

Raising an eyebrow, York smirks at Carolina. “I appreciate it,” he says, dropping his voice to be warm and smooth.

“Really, dude?” mutters Tucker. “Now?” York shoots an irritated look at him.

Guarded, Carolina says, “You’re welcome,” and starts herding Wash into the car. A sudden thought hitting Tucker, he hurries after them.

“Hey,” he says to Wash. “You wanna give me your keys and I’ll drive your car home for you?”

“Oh,” rasps Wash. “That’s a good idea,” and he fishes his keys out of his pocket and drops them into Tucker’s hand. “My car’s over there,” he says, pointing.

“Thanks.” Tucker pats him on the shoulder and steps back, aware of York still watching him. “See you back at the dorm.”

Wash grunts.

As Tucker heads over to Wash’s car, York hurries after him. “Hey, man,” he says. “Uh…”

“Yeah?”

Putting a hand to his forehead, York wobbles slightly, frowning. “I dunno,” he ends up saying. “I feel like… Fuck. I wanted to say something to you.”

Standing on the sidewalk in the cool night air, the darkness broken by the bright white gleam of fluorescent lights over the covered parking spots, a cricket chirping somewhere, Tucker raises his eyebrows at York. “What?”

“Yeah.” York scrunches his face up and rubs a hand over his jaw. “I dunno. Just.”

“I can see why you didn’t want to drive,” mutters Tucker. “Whatever it is, tell me later, all right?”

“Uhhhh. Yeah. Yeah. Fuck.” Scrubbing his hands through his hair, York takes a couple unsteady paces back towards the apartment. “See you later.”

“See you,” says Tucker, turning back to Wash’s car. He’s made maybe two steps toward it before York grabs his arm and spins him around, suddenly close. “Dude, what the –”

“I remembered,” says York, so close Tucker can smell the alcohol on his breath. “If you want a rematch. Laser tag. Let’s do it.”

Tucker raises his eyebrows even higher, trying to ignore how warm York’s hand on his arm is. “Now?”

A dangerous grin spreads across York’s face. “Yeah. Now. Let’s go.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Tucker puts his hands on York’s shoulders, over firm muscle left bare by his tank top, and turns him around. “Not tonight, I’m busy. Go back to your friends.”

Stumbling a little, York moves forward but looks back at Tucker. “Me. You. Rematch.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Some other time.”

Apparently satisfied, York starts walking back to the apartment. “Good night!” he yells, spinning around and waving.

“Yup.” Tucker waves back, waiting for York to make it safely inside before sighing heavily and unlocking Wash’s car. This night, Jesus Christ.

He follows Carolina out of the neighborhood and back onto Malibu Canyon Road. She takes the winding canyon road slow, probably for Wash’s sake, and when they’re about halfway through her blinker turns on and she pulls over into one of the turnouts. As Tucker parks behind her, the passenger door opens and Wash leans out, retching.

Poor guy. Tucker gets out of the car and starts to walk over as Carolina hurries over to Wash, awkwardly patting him on the back. “Need any help?” he says.

“No, I’ve got this.” Carolina frowns down at Wash, who is bent over with his elbows on his knees, eyes closed and his breathing shaky. “Just head back to campus.”

“All right.”

Maybe five minutes after Tucker gets back to his dorm, Carolina texts him to let them in. Tucker opens the building door for them, Wash half-leaning on Carolina with sweat on his sallow face. “I got him from here,” says Tucker.

“I can walk,” mutters Wash; Tucker ignores him.

“All right, I’m going back to bed,” says Carolina. “Text me if you need anything.”

Wash raises a hand in a half-hearted wave. “Night,” says Tucker. “All right, let’s go before Butch – finds – us…” His voice trails off as he turns around and comes face to face with the RA, who smiles brightly at Tucker before his face falls dramatically.

“Oh, no,” Butch says. “Is David ill?”

“Probably just a stomach bug, I’m taking him up to our room.” Tucker starts edging towards Wash, who is already trudging towards the stairs up to their suite. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll go with you!”

Tucker suppresses a cringe. “No, seriously, it’s okay –”

“As your RA, I am responsible for the health of everyone in my dorm. I want to make sure that David is adequately cared for!”

Not paying attention to either of them, Wash drags himself up the stairs, Tucker following after him. Butch hovers on his heels. “Would you like me to get some ginger ale?” he says.

Wash slams the suite door behind him, leaving Tucker and Butch in the echoing stairwell. “I think that’s a no,” says Tucker.

“Well,” huffs Butch, and then the pleasant smile reappears on his face so quickly it’s alarming. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help. I want to make sure my boys are all right, after all.”

“Eeh,” says Tucker, and darts inside the suite as quickly as he can.

The bathroom door is shut and the shower running inside. “Hey, Wash?” says Tucker. “You need anything?”

“No.”

“ ‘Kay, just let me know.” He’ll probably be in there a while.

“Tucker?” Caboose stands in the doorway to his room, curls rumpled. “Is Wash okay?”

Sighing, Tucker flops down on the couch, debating whether he even wants to do homework today. “He’s fine, just got the stomach flu or something. Leave him alone.”

“Okay, because I said hello to him and he did not say hello back,” sniffs Caboose. “But if he’s feeling sick that’s all right.”

\--

Tucker wakes up in the morning to the sound of Wash shuffling around, getting dressed. “What are you doing?” says Tucker blearily, unsticking his face from his pillow.

“Going to class,” says Wash.

“Wha – dude, you got like four hours of sleep last night, tops.” Tucker pushes himself up on his elbows, squinting at Wash. He doesn’t look nearly as clammy, but he’s pale, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. “Take the day off, you can miss a couple of classes.”

“I’m fine, I can go to class.”

“You look like _shit._ ”

Wash glares at Tucker, hefting his backpack up onto his shoulders. “I’m not throwing up anymore, I’m just tired. I’m fine.”

Trying a different tactic, Tucker says, “What if you get everyone else sick with the stomach bug?”

“I don’t think I was sick, I think it was food poisoning,” says Wash grimly. “Pretty sure it was the sandwiches at that networking event yesterday.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Anyway, see you later,” and before Tucker can protest Wash walks out, shutting the door behind him. Tucker briefly debates going after him before deciding he’s too sleepy to bother. Slumping back into his bed, Tucker closes his eyes. He’s still got an hour before his alarm goes off, after all.


	5. i am conFUSHION

When York comes back to the apartment after class, fast food in hand, North is seated at the kitchen table and typing on his laptop. “Hey, man,” says York, closing the door beside him.

“Hey,” says North absently, frowning at his screen.

“How’s it going?” Flopping down on the couch, York takes his cheeseburger out of the paper bag, unwrapping it.

“Not… bad…” North makes a few clicks and then shuts his laptop with an ominous _snap_ , looking directly at York. “York, I need to talk to you about something.” 

York freezes mid-chew. Gulping down burger, he says, “What?”

“Last night, during the rush event, I noticed you flirting with Liam.” North folds his arms on the table, expression serious. “Did you go any farther?”

Liam, Liam… Right! One of the freshmen rushing PFL. York’s memory of last night is filtered through a haze of alcohol but he remembers Liam. Nice guy, blond hair, easy to flirt with. “Nah,” says York. Having to clean up Wash puke kind of put a damper on his mood, and then Tucker had been… distracting. “We didn’t do anything.”

North narrows his eyes at him. “You left with him.”

“I did…? Oh, _shit,_ I did.” York slumps back into the worn-down leather of the couch, a hand-me-down from North’s dad. “Yeah, we, uh. We might have fucked.”

Eyebrows raised, North says, “Might have?”

York’s stomach tightens in recollection at the memory of lips on his neck, hands in his hair, a tongue along his dick. “Definitely did.”

“York,” sighs North, and drops his face into his hands. “You can’t… you can’t sleep with the pledges, that’s not _ethical…_ ”

“Why not?” York takes a big bite of his cheeseburger and continues, “It’s not like I promised he could join PFL if he blew me, there wasn’t any sort of – of _coercion –_ ”

“And if you were accused of that, could you prove it?” demands North. “Even if that wasn’t explicitly said, don’t you think that dynamic’s still there?”

“No!” Glaring at North, York says, “There wasn’t anything like that, all right, it was just a hook-up, neither of us expected anything out of it –”

“York, you’re the president! You can’t just do things like this!” North gestures in helpless anger, his cheeks flushed. “It might not be a big deal now, but maybe –”

“What, and the underage drinking isn’t?” snaps York. “You’re fine with all that, but when I go out –”

“There’s not a whole lot I can do about the drinking,” says North grimly. “But with this, I hope, I can knock some sense into you.”

York takes a furious drink of his soda, liquid rattling in the straw. “I’ll sleep with whoever I want,” he says.

“ _York –”_

“There’s only like one day of rush left, anyway, it won’t matter after that,” says York, and swallows another burger mouthful. “So chill out.”

Sighing heavily, North pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says at last. “Just. Think about what you’re doing, all right? And if this comes back to bite us in the butt, I’m blaming _you._ ”

York shrugs, sipping soda. “Fair enough.”

\--

They’re supposed to be working on their projects again in class, but York is clearly not interested in collaborating with Tucker. Instead he slumps in his seat opposite him, staring into space, flipping a pen back and forth between his fingers. “Hey,” says Tucker, annoyed. “Dude. We gonna work on this today or not?”

York sighs, frowning. “Can I ask you a question?” he says slowly.

Tempting as it is to quip, “You already did,” there’s something in York’s voice that gives Tucker pause. “Sure,” he says. “About what?”

Chewing his lip, York turns the pen over. “Say hypothetically a guy was in a fraternity, and he was flirting with a freshman who was rushing that frat, or even like hooking up with him. Would that be okay?”

“Uh,” says Tucker, as he short-circuits. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t _that._ “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“You know, if there’s some kind of power imbalance going on. Like, ‘suck my dick and I’ll let you join the frat’ kind of thing.” Chewing on the pen, York looks over at Tucker.

Barely keeping his voice from squeaking, Tucker says, “Has that been happening?”

“No! No way,” says York. “Purely hypothetical. Imaginary situation.”

“Uh-huh…” Tucker leans back in his seat, assessing… Who is York talking about? Is he talking about Wash? Is he talking about _Tucker?_ Has he been flirting with Tucker this whole time?

For a couple seconds, Tucker can only stare blankly at York as he tries to process this potential outcome. “I, uh, I think it’s fine,” he says at last, and clears his throat. “Like, unless there’s an actual problem.”

“Right?” says York, with sudden vindication. “Obviously if there’s like, an actual issue that’s a problem, but if it’s just two dudes hooking up I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“Yeah,” says Tucker. “Yeah, totally. Just two dudes. No big deal.” Holy shit, he would have never guessed York was into guys in the first place, let alone that he was flirting with _Tucker._

“See, I’m glad _someone_ agrees with me,” snorts York, and sits up straight. “All right, let’s get to work.”

But for the rest of the class period Tucker’s head buzzes, making it impossible for him to concentrate. When class is over he practically sprints outside, furiously texting Wash.

_Did u notice york flirting with me at all????_

Wash does not respond until several hours later, when Tucker’s having lunch. _No. Why?_

_No reason_

\--

This time when York arrives home, there’s no North, but Tex is sprawled on his couch, barefoot, watching TV and eating potato chips out of the bag. York pauses in the doorway, frowning. “Did North let you in?”

“Nah,” she says, and crunches a chip.

Closing the door behind him, York slowly asks, “Then how’d you get in?”

Tex shrugs. “Window.”

“Christ, Tex, just ask and I’ll get you a key, you don’t need to break in.” Getting a closer look at her, York sees her eyes are red. And on the TV is _Lilo and Stitch_ , which she only watches when she’s upset. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Right, so it’s a family problem. “All right, scoot over.” Dropping his backpack on a chair, York walks over to the couch. Tex lifts her feet so he has space to sit and then drops them back in his lap. The movie’s only about halfway through – Stitch is currently terrorizing innocent townsfolk – and York settles in to watch, idly massaging Tex’s arches.

By the end of the movie the chip bag is empty and Tex is sniffling and wiping her eyes. Studiously ignoring her, York picks up the remote to switch to TV channels. “You wanna see if House Hunters is on?”

“Yeah.” Clearing her throat and blowing her nose, Tex sits up straight, swinging her feet out of York’s lap. “Can I get a beer?”

“Go for it, there’s a six pack in the fridge.”

By the time North gets home, York and Tex are two beers in each. “Are you kidding?” says Tex. “She’s got three kids and a dog, wants something low maintenance, and she’s picking the _white_ cabinets?”

York says, “She needs a maid.” Bemused, North walks over to stand by the couch and watch the TV.

“She needs a smack on the head,” grumbles Tex, and swigs beer.

One hand fiddling with the tab on his empty beer can, York looks away from Diane and Marc’s struggle to decorate their home to up at North. “Hey, man,” he says cautiously. They haven’t really had the chance to talk since yesterday’s argument.

“Hey,” says North, with a hint of a smile. He looks tired but not upset, and York relaxes, a knot of tension loosening in his chest. “You guys want pizza?”

\--

Despite how warm a September it’s been, the early morning sky is gray and overcast, a stiff breeze whipping along the beach. York bounces on the balls of his feet, toes digging into the damp sand, and surveys the row of shivering shirtless PFL pledges in front of him. “Men!” he yells. “You have survived every trial, passed every test. One final challenge stands between you and membership in Pi Phi Lambda!”

Standing behind him, the other PFL members chant and whoop. Several of the pledges exchange nervous looks, while others eye the ocean with determination. Tucker’s buddy, Wash, squints at the rushing gray waves like he has a personal vendetta against them, the wind ruffling his dark hair.

“To prove your strength and bravery, you must plunge into the ocean!” York shouts. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah!” the pledges roar.

Stepping back, York flings his arm out at the Pacific. “Then go!”

Accompanied by the shouts of the fraternity brothers, kicking up sand, the pledges run full tilt down the beach and crash into the ocean. Whooping, York cheers them on.

After they reach the water and submerge themselves, pledges start hurrying back up towards the beach. As each one reaches York, he hands them their PFL sweatshirt, feeling a strange sense of pride at this row of bright-eyed freshman grinning in exhilaration. “Welcome to Pi Phi Lambda,” he says with each sweatshirt he gives them, and shakes each one by the hand. Wash is one of the first in line, and he returns York’s grin with a steady smile, sizing York up.

(Liam is also in line, and York is especially careful not to shake his hand too long, aware of North’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head).

Once the pledges – now official PFL members – have dried off and gathered up their sweatshirts and towels, everyone piles into cars and drives over to Lily’s Malibu for breakfast burritos. It’s a small restaurant, only big enough for a counter and a few tables inside, and with nearly all fifty PFL members present they form a line that wraps through the building and out into the shopping center courtyard.

York ends up in line next to Wash, whose hair is salt-encrusted and swept in all directions. “Hey, man,” he says. “How’s it feel to be official?”

A cautious smile spreads across Wash’s face. “It feels good.”

Grinning, York lightly punches him in the shoulder. “You’re a good guy, we’re glad to have you.” The line moves and he steps forward a few paces.

“Thanks.” Wash steps up with him, and then says, “Hey, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Nah man, go for it.”

Wash frowns slightly, as if collecting his thoughts. “Tucker wants to know if you’re flirting with him.”

For a full two seconds, York has no response. “He what?” he finally manages to say.

Sighing, Wash rolls his eyes. “He’s got it in his head that you’re flirting with him, he keeps bugging me to find out so I figured I’d ask you flat-out.”

No, of course I’m not, York is about to say, but stops himself. What if he _was?_ Wouldn’t that be one hell of a way to mess with Tucker, if he started hitting on him? The idea fills York with a bead of warm glee.

“So, what should I tell him?” says Wash.

Raising an eyebrow, York smiles at Wash with as much devious energy as he can muster. “Tell Tucker he can think whatever he wants,” says York smoothly, and winks at Wash.

Wash blinks in surprise. “Oh,” he says, frowning. “Okay…”

“Trust me.” York claps Wash on the shoulder and steps up in line again. “It’s more fun this way.” 

\--

Upside of Bloodgulch University campus being on a hillside – great view of the ocean. Downside – stairs _fucking everywhere._ “We won’t even need to go to the gym,” grumbles Tucker, hurrying down yet another flight of stairs after Wash. “By the time we get there it’ll be enough.”

Wash snorts. “Wait until we have to climb back up.”

“Oh, _God._ ”

The gym is pretty nice, lots of high-quality machines and a whole wall of mirrors and windows looking out at the ocean. Because Wash is a goddamn monster who somehow got Tucker to come to the gym with him at nine in the morning on a Friday, the gym is all but empty, only one blonde girl (looks like a volleyball player) on a thigh curler.

Wash scopes out the gym and goes for an empty treadmill. Keeping an eye on the blonde girl – she doesn’t seem like she’s very interested in Tucker, but who knows – Tucker steps up on the machine beside Wash. Leaning on the treadmill console, Tucker takes a long drink of water, putting off the moment of starting exercise for as long as possible.

Beside him, Wash’s treadmill whirs to life and he starts running, headphones in his ears, feet pounding, a look of intense concentration on his face. Sighing, Tucker turns his own machine on, going at a slow walk. After maybe fifteen minutes, Wash runs steadily with sweat beading his face while Tucker jogs at a leisurely pace. Tucker’s starting to get bored; Wash is too in the zone to have any sort of conversation with, which to Tucker kind of defeats the point of going to the gym with a buddy in the first place. He’s contemplating abandoning the treadmill for a weight machine when in walk York and Tex.

Snapping his gaze back to the console, Tucker runs with sudden focus, determined to keep his expression blank. Don’t panic, he tells himself, you’re cool, you got this, as if he hasn’t spent the past few days turning over York’s answer to Wash in his mind trying to figure out _what the hell he meant._

Thanks to the mirror in front of him, Tucker sees Tex and York move over to the weight rack. York’s tank top is bright yellow, reads SUNS OUT GUNS OUT, and has the sides ripped open. It offends Tucker on a spiritual level.

He tries not to keep glancing at them as they set up, Tex lying down to deadlift while York spots her, but frankly running is boring and they’re both very ripped and attractive people. And then Tex actually starts lifting and holy shit, that’s got to be at least a hundred and fifty pounds. Tucker stares openly at her, and that’s when York happens to look up, catch his gaze in the mirror, and wink.

Two can play at that game. Tucker smirks back and increases the speed on his treadmill to something more impressive, breath hitching as he picks up his pace. But York keeps his attention on Tex as she finishes her set and lets the bar go with a heavy _clang_ , red-faced and breathing hard. Tossing his dreadlocks back over his shoulder, Tucker speeds up the treadmill even more to match Wash.

York glances over at him again in the mirror, this time with a more calculating expression that makes Tucker’s stomach do a funny little flop. Huffing, Tucker stares resolutely ahead and keeps running. Whatever York’s planning, he won’t let it get to him.

By the time Tex has done two more sets Tucker is dripping sweat and wheezing for air. Conceding defeat, he slows to a walk and then stops, wiping his face on his arm. York is definitely watching him, so Tucker makes a big show of how he’s not paying attention, instead taking a long, long drink from his water bottle, tilting his head back to get more water. Wash, who is apparently the Terminator, continues running with only a brief sideways glance.

Tex has moved on to the pull-up bar, hoisting herself up with apparent ease. Briefly engrossed by her rippling biceps and abs, Tucker doesn’t notice York sauntering up towards him until he’s nearly at his side. “Hey, man,” says York.

“Hey.” Tucker steps off the treadmill to face York, still breathing a little hard. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad, not bad…” York’s gaze flicks over Tucker before he grins crookedly at him. “You been working out all morning?”

Where is he going with this? “Nah, we only got here a little while before you.”

“Oh, nice.” York rubs the back of his neck in a way that might be careful, but Tucker is pretty sure he’s deliberately flexing as his muscles swell under his smooth golden skin. In the morning light York’s eyes are the bright blue-gray of the ocean, and he smiles at Tucker with a lazy nonchalance that makes irritation prickle across Tucker’s skin. How dare York smile like that at him, like everything’s fine and he’s not playing stupid mind games with Tucker. The sudden urge to smack that smile off York’s face hits Tucker, maybe not to actually hit him, but to surprise him, catch him off guard –

“Hey, if you want to lift, I’ll spot you,” says Tucker, determinedly friendly.

Mischievous sparks dance in York’s eyes. “Dude, you can spot me any time, if you know what I’m saying,” he says, and winks at Tucker again.

Oh, he’s definitely flirting at Tucker, and it’s definitely to get under Tucker’s skin, and he’s fallen victim to one of the classic blunders, second only to “never get involved in a land war in Asia”: “never go in against Tucker when sex is on the line.” 

“Careful,” says Tucker, smirking, as he starts walking towards the weight bench. “Or I might actually take you up on that offer.”

York’s eyes widen and his lips part for the briefest second, but it’s enough. Tucker one, York zero. As York gets himself settled on the weight bench, Tucker stands over him, arms folded, and goes in for another hit. “Looks like I’ve already got you on your back,” he says, leaning against the weight rack. “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

A faint flush spreads up York’s neck and he curls his lips back in a smile. “Only ‘cause you asked so nicely, baby.”

Any snappy retort Tucker might have had dies on his tongue at the sudden breathless twist in his core. He’s been called “baby” before but not like this, easy and casual and in a voice deeper than his own. Swallowing hard, he sees the smug look on York’s face and knows the score has changed. One-one.

“Are you actually going to lift, or just lay there and talk?” retorts Tucker, sharper than he meant. York’s face smooths out and he gets a grip on the bar of the weights, lifting them up with a _huff._ Tucker keeps an eye on him, watching his face, the shifting muscles in his arms and chest. At a quick glance around the room, the blonde girl has left, Tex is doing bicep curls, and Wash stretches in the corner.

After ten reps York pauses for breath, sweat beading his forehead. As much as Tucker joked about getting him on his back, it’s a good look for him. Tucker crosses his arms and his legs and ignores how dry his throat is. “You good for another round?”

It’s an easy opening and he regrets it as soon as he says it. “Dude, I’m always good for another round,” murmurs York, wrapping his long fingers around the metal bar and pressing up.

Tucker says, “Not after me, you wouldn’t be.”

York’s sweat-slick grasp on the bar fumbles and it drops, Tucker lunging forward to catch and ease it back onto its supports. “Thanks,” pants York.

“No problem.” Two-one.

By York’s third set he’s struggling, teeth gritted as he manages one last rep. Gasping, he falls back as the weight bar clatters into the rack. “You want a turn?” he pants up at Tucker.

Unsure of whether this is a genuine question or another come-on, Tucker says, “Nah, it’s leg day for me today.” He subtly angles his leg, flexing, because goddamn if he hasn’t worked hard for these calves.

“Oh, okay.” Sliding forward, York sits up and chugs water. Tucker watches, fascinated by the carved lines of his throat and his Adam’s apple bobbing and a bead of sweat that slides down his neck –

Stop it! he berates himself, standing up straight. What the hell is wrong with you? To distract himself he looks around the gym. Wash has moved over to the punching bag and takes a couple jabs at it while Tex watches, interested. After a moment or two she walks over and starts offering him pointers, demonstrating different hit combos. “Oh good, they’re bonding,” says Tucker.

York chuckles. “Well, I gotta head out,” he says easily, sweeping to his feet. “Tex? You coming?”

The gym echoes with a resounding _thwack_ as Tex roundhouse kicks the punching bag, making it swing wildly. She steps back with a pleased grin as Wash gazes at her in restrained but distinct awe. “Sure,” she says, and starts walking back towards York, but turns around to call at Wash, “Tuesday at seven, yeah?”

“Yup!” Wash gives her a thumbs-up.

“Awesome.” She salutes him, tosses a blinding grin at Tucker, and strides out of the gym alongside York, her blonde ponytail bouncing. Tucker stares after them in despair. How can two people be so good-looking, it’s not fair.

Still breathing a little hard, Wash steps up beside him. “What’s at Tuesday night on seven?” Tucker asks.

“Oh,” says Wash. “Tex invited me to a krav maga class with her and Carolina.”

“Krav maga?”

“Yeah. You know, like martial arts. Developed by the Israeli military.”

“Oh shit, that’s hardcore, dude.”

“Yeah.”

\--

“Look,” says Tucker, “sandwich is the _verb_ , anything’s a sandwich if you put two things together with a filling –”

Wash leans in across the table from him, retorting, “No, it has to be some kind of bread, even if it’s a roll –”

“Ice cream sandwich, Wash. Ice cream _sandwich._ ”

Glaring at him, Wash opens his mouth to argue but is cut off by Carolina calmly saying, “Poptart is a ravioli,” and taking a bite of her grilled cheese.

The lunch table erupts into chaos, Wash and Kai both shouting at Carolina, Caboose gleefully repeating “Poptarts are ravioli!”, and Tex groaning “Oh, my God,” and leaning back in her seat to stare up at the ceiling. Laughing, Tucker takes a bite of his pizza, and that’s when he sees York out of the corner of his eye.

He’s considering shouting something raunchy over at York when he realizes York isn’t heading towards them. Instead, he’s walking next to a girl, tall and long-legged with a mane of coppery hair, and they go together towards a table by the big window wall of the caf that looks out on the ocean view. Narrowing his eyes, Tucker watches as they sit opposite each other, York on the side facing Tucker. He knows that look on York’s face. _He knows that smile._

“Dude,” mutters Tex under the cover of sandwich discourse, knocking her shoulder against Tucker’s. “What’s up?”

Tucker nods over at York. “What’s he doing?”

Craning her neck, Tex looks over. “Having lunch with a girl, it looks like.”

“He’s _flirting_ with her,” says Tucker, taking a resentful bite of pizza.

Tex raises a sharp eyebrow at him. “Is that a problem?”

It shouldn’t be. He’s supposed to be flirting with _me,_ Tucker wants to say, except that’s stupid because York can flirt with whoever he wants, and also he wasn’t really flirting with Tucker in the first place, and who even cares, anyway. Not Tucker. Tucker doesn’t care. “ _No_ ,” he mutters.

Swallowing down pizza, he looks over at Tex. Both her eyebrows are raised now in a way he really doesn’t like. “What?” Tucker demands.

Tex shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, and bites into her green apple.

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re kind of acting like it’s a problem.”

Uncomfortably aware of the rest of the group now watching him, Tucker shrugs and leans back in his chair. “It’s really not.”

“What’s a problem?” asks Wash.

Through gritted teeth, Tucker says, “Nothing –”

“Tucker’s pissed off because York’s on a lunch date,” says Tex.

Tucker gapes in shock at this betrayal. “ _Tex._ ”

Both Wash and Carolina eye Tucker, while Kai twists around fully in her chair to look at York and the girl. “Oooh,” she says. “She’s cute.”

“You can only see the back of her head,” snaps Tucker.

Kai shrugs. “Still cute.”

“Tucker, you shouldn’t pee on York,” says Caboose. “Because then he will never date you.”

Tucker chokes mid-drink, spraying water in front of him, while Tex roars in laughter. “I’m – I’m not – I don’t want to _date_ him!” he sputters once he can talk. “Jesus!”

“Hmm…” Carolina and Wash exchange significant looks and boy, Tucker does not like that at all either. “I don’t know, Wash, methinks the lady doth protest too much," Carolina says.

“I’m not interested in York,”  growls Tucker. “Okay? I’m not – shut the fuck up, Tex!”

She immediately stops laughing and now everyone’s staring at him, the mood at the table like a popped balloon. Caboose’s mouth hangs open, his big cow eyes wide. “ _Wow_ ,” says Kai.

“I’m eating outside,” mumbles Tucker, standing up with his tray of food. Thankfully no one follows him as he stalks out to the patio, determinedly not looking at York as he passes by his table. Finding an empty table in the corner, Tucker plunks down and finishes his lunch morosely.

His phone buzzes. Pulling it out, Tucker sees a text from Wash. _Do you want to talk about it?_

_Not really_

And Wash, to his credit and Tucker’s eternal gratitude, doesn’t respond.

\--

That night Tucker returns to an empty dorm suite after rehearsal, both Wash (krav maga) and Caboose (who knows) out. Sighing, Tucker shucks off clothes sweaty from a night of running across stage under hot lights and makes a beeline for the shower. It’s not often he gets a night to himself, and he is sure as hell taking advantage of it.

For at least five minutes, though, Tucker just stands still in the shower, letting the hot water wash over him. It eases his aching muscles, bleeds out the tension from his shoulders and spine. But his gut clenches in frustration and blunt need, all the way down to his dick.

Closing his eyes, Tucker wraps one water-slick hand around his cock, stroking slowly along rapidly-stiffening flesh. He’s not even sure what he wants, just that lately nothing’s been enough. Been too long since he got laid. Tucker aches for lips on his, hands on his, someone pushing him back into the pillows with a glowing grin.

Tucker quickens the movement of his hand a little, bracing himself against the tiled wall with his other arm. His cock is fever-hot against his skin, sliding easily in his grip. Biting his lip, Tucker strokes himself harder. What he wouldn’t give for someone else’s hand on his dick right now. Someone standing behind him, maybe, arms sneaking around to splay one hand flat on his stomach and wrap the other around his dick, someone who kisses the back of his neck with a low chuckle –

Tucker pauses in his rhythm briefly because that was a male voice in his imagination, but _fuck_ , he needs it, so he keeps going. And actually it’s pretty good, broad warm hands, fingers longer than his, a chest as wide as his shoulders pressed up against his back. Breathing hard through parted lips, Tucker works himself faster, _schlick-schlick-schlick,_ the knot in his stomach curling tighter and tighter.

Maybe the guy in his imagination would put his hands on Tucker’s hips, pulling him closer, fingers sliding along the creases into the inner thighs. Yeah. That sounds good. Tucker groans, rocking into his hand, twisting his wrist on each downstroke. Someone with a smooth voice, warm and golden, his muscles firm under Tucker’s touch.

“Ah,” pants Tucker, stroking faster and harder. “Hah – ah – _oh –_ ”

The frustration and jealousy and wanting all twist up tight in his core, from his chest straight through his cock, pulling in and in and in. Hot water rushes down over him and his heart pounds faster, a breath punching out of him each time his palm drags over the head of his cock. He wants, he needs, those hands gripping him, body pressed up warm behind him, York’s voice rough and low in his ear –

Tucker groans loudly as stomach clenches, his dick throbbing, he’s so close, a few more strokes ought to do it. Lips on the back of his neck, York holding him tight around the waist, and Tucker moans again, heat around him and on him and in him and it all draws in closer and closer until he can’t take it, he can’t take it, he can’t take it, and the dam breaks.

Panting, Tucker blinks water out of his eyes, leaning against the wall, his ears ringing faintly. His hands and knees are shaking. “Fuck,” whispers Tucker, straightening. Did he just. He did, didn’t he.

He gets out of the shower and dries himself off in a sort of daze, still trying to process the fact that he just jerked it to York, his least favorite person on the planet, and also a dude. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just, you know, it’s not what he was expecting, and also _York_ , and oh God, Tucker just remembered he has class with him tomorrow morning –

Groaning, but in exasperation this time, Tucker buries his face in the towel. Well, now he can clearly never look York in the eyes again. Fucking fantastic.

\--

“I bet they get a divorce in three years,” sniffs Tex, dressed in a tank top and sweat pants, frowning at the TV with her bare feet propped up on York’s coffee table. “Look at them.”

“Are you saying that because they put his and her sinks on literally opposite sides of the bathroom, or because he wants a bed in his man cave?” says York.

Tex shrugs, unimpressed. “Both.”

Chuckling, York grabs a handful of cheese puffs as Luke and Rachel and their two and a half kids bicker about ceiling colors. “Hey, do you know if something’s up with Tucker?”

A skeptical look crosses Tex’s face. “Define ‘something.’”

“I dunno, we have the same advertising class together and we’re in a group project but he’s been like, weird and distant the last couple of classes. Like he doesn’t want to look at me.”

“Huhhhh.” Crossing her arms, Tex leans back into the couch. “I think you might have upset him the other week.”

“What? Why?” Panic spikes in York’s chest – was it the flirting, was it too much, Tucker seemed like he was into it but maybe York judged wrong –

“Dude, I don’t know, he saw you on that lunch date and got all weird about it.” Tex rolls her eyes at York.

Well that… doesn’t make sense. “Why would Tucker be upset about me being on a date?”

“I don’t know, I don’t speak dudebro, I don’t know what his problem is.” Tex shoves a handful of cheese puffs in her mouth. “You could just ask him yourself,” she mumbles.

York snorts. “Sure, and look like an idiot for making a big deal out of nothing?”

With an aggrieved sigh, Tex starts licking cheese dust off her fingers. “Right. Because that’s what would make you look like an idiot.”

“Hey!” protests York. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” and in a brief, sudden gesture Tex rests her head on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t fuck it up too bad.”

There’s something in her tone that York can’t quite place. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

“Nothing!” says Tex brightly, attention focused on the TV again. “Nothing at all.”

\--

“And how are your classes going?” says Mama Tucker, her voice filtered through phone static. “You keeping up?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing fine.” Sprawled out on the couch, Tucker holds the phone up to his ear with his shoulder, surfing Twitter. His damn Overwatch League is losing playoffs.

“You have midterms coming up soon, right?”

“Yup.” Tucker does not want to think about the pile of textbooks currently on his desk. “Don’t worry, I’m studying.”

“Lavernius, honey, I don’t worry about you no more,” says Mama. “I know you’ll do well.”

Smiling, Tucker says, “Thanks, Mom.”

She pauses for a second, and when she speaks again her voice is thick. “Your daddy would be real proud of you right now, if he were here.”

“Yeah.” Tucker clears his throat to dislodge the lump, eyes stinging. “I – I know.”

“He would. He’d be so proud.” Mama blows her nose. “Anyway,” she says, with determined cheer, “you need anything? You eating all right?”

If pizza and cheeseburgers and chicken wings every day is all right, then yeah. “Yeah. It’s not like your cooking, though.”

“Well,” chuckles Mama. “I’ll send you some cookies.”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah.” Tucker nearly drops his phone in excitement. “Chocolate chip?”

“You got it. Hey, I gotta go, I’ll be late for work, but I’ll talk to you later, okay? And I’ll send you those cookies.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later,” says Tucker, a smile curving his lips again.

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you too.”


	6. "go suck a dick" to the tune of pachelbel's canon in d

Standing in the darkness of backstage, Tucker drums his fingers against his thighs, heart pounding in his chest. Bright blue and purple lights shine onstage as Nick Bottom and his acting troupe, reimagined as drag queens, argue about performing a play.

Dressed in black, headset on, Tex steps up beside him. “You nervous?” she whispers, chewing gum.

Tucker shakes his head. Deep breaths. He can do this. The drag queens troop offstage, his cue is coming –

Tex winks. “You got this,” she whispers, and lightly punches him in the bicep.

The onstage lights dim, turning blue and pink and purple. Exhaling sharply, Tucker shakes out his hands, bounces on his toes. Fuck yeah, he’s got this. He’s going to be  _awesome._

Music plays, low and bassy. Summoning confidence in his walk and chaos in his smile, Tucker dances out on stage, slinking from set piece to set piece. Perched on the false stripper stage, Tucker grins down as Fairy 1 enters, her sequined top glittering in the lights, the opening night audience just visible in the hollow dark of the theater.

“How now, spirit?” calls Tucker, standing up straight, a thrill of adrenaline running down his spine at the sound of his own voice. “Whither wander you?”

\--

“Hey,” says Tex, kicking York under the dinner table. “You gonna see  _Midsummer?_ ”

“Huh?” York looks up from his phone. “Why?”

She huffs at him, greasy orange chicken held in her chopsticks. At nine-thirty p.m. on a Saturday night they’re the only people in this Panda Express. “Because it’s a good show.”

Wrinkling his nose, York says, “I’m not really a theater guy.”

Tex narrows her eyes at him. “The fairies are strippers.”

Not sure he heard her right, York blinks at her. “Do they actually strip on stage?”

“No, but they’re dressed like it.” Shrugging, Tex pops a piece of chicken in her mouth and eyes him significantly. “I think you should go. Last show is tomorrow night.”

“All right, all right, I’ll go.” York’s not really sure why this is such a big deal to her, but he’s learned better than to question Tex sometimes. “You want that last eggroll or not?”

\--

Sighing, York finds his theater seat and sits down, wishing he’d been able to snag a date to see the play with him. Then, at least, he’d have someone to make snarky comments to as he sits through three hours of love triangles and goofy shenanigans. Yes, he’s read  _Midsummer Night’s Dream._  No, he’s not particularly fond of it. No one dies.

As he waits for the curtain to rise, York flips idly through the program. Long list of sponsors, yadda yadda, the cast list… York scans it, maybe he knows someone in the cast.

Oh.

He definitely does.

York stares down at “PUCK – LAVERNIUS TUCKER” in a mild panic. Surely Tex knew he was acting, she’s crewing the show right now. Why didn’t she tell him? Is  _this_  what she meant when she said he should watch it?

Whatever, he tells himself, folding the program up and sinking into his seat. So he gets to watch Tucker make a fool of himself on stage. Great, even more material for him to tease Tucker with next time they see each other.

Stretching his legs while trying not to kick the person in front of him, York settles in for the play, trying to quell the strange tension in his gut. What is he even tense about, anyway? It’s just  _Tucker._

Hovering dangerously close to a realization, York is saved by the dimming of the lights and the sudden pounding beat of Ke$ha. As the play starts, he finds himself unexpectedly entertained. It’s a decent cast and whoever was directing had a penchant for slapstick. And Tex promised him scantily-clad fairies, so there’s something to look forward –

Wait. Tucker’s playing a fairy.

York folds his arms over his chest as the actors’ troop, drag queens in this production, shout at each other. Maybe that’s how he got cast, Tucker never struck York as particularly Shakespearean anyway.

The lights shift hue to blue and violet, music playing again. A figure darts out from the wings, leaping along the set. Dark-skinned and well-muscled, with long black braids, wearing shimmery aqua pants and with glitter coating his bare chest and shoulders.

York swallows hard. Not the look he’d been expecting, but damn, does it work. And as Tucker moves, crouching up on the fake stage, his dancer-like grace captures York’s gaze. Even when a fairy saunters onstage in a halter top and booty shorts, her long legs gleaming in the stage lights, he can’t tear his eyes away from Tucker.

And as the play progresses, it only gets worse. Tucker gyrates and grinds on fairies and delivers his lines with irreverent and magnetic glee. Throat tight, York resists the urge to squirm as his dick makes itself increasingly known. Think about anything else, he tells himself. Anything except stupid sexy Tucker.

The lights coming back on for intermission is blessed relief, and York whips his phone out of his pocket, texting Tex furiously.  _Why didn’t you tell me???_ he demands.

(Smiling Face With Halo ) _tell u what?_

_That tucker is in the play!!!_

_oh he is?_

_TEX_

_loooool_ (Face With Tears Of Joy )(Face With Tears Of Joy )

_bc i didnt think it was a big deal_

_is it a big deal?_ (Eyes )

York frowns down at his screen, tapping his thumbs on the phone case sides. If he tells Tex yes, he’ll never hear the end of it from her. But if he doesn’t, she’ll keep pulling shit like this. Only solution is to take the fight to her.

_Aren’t you supposed to be working_

_its intermission dumbass_ (Face With Stuck-Out Tongue )

_Yeah but you’re still on the clock_

_i see u tryin to change the subject_

_it wont work on me_

_why did u need to know tucker was in the play??_

_WHY YORK_

York settles for half of the truth.

_Because he’s my mortal enemy, that’s why_

(Face With Stuck-Out Tongue And Tightly-Closed Eyes ) (Face With Stuck-Out Tongue And Tightly-Closed Eyes ) (Face With Stuck-Out Tongue And Tightly-Closed Eyes ) _u guys are cute_

Prickling heat sweeps over York and he shifts in his seat, uncomfortably aware of his dick. Don’t be weird, he tells himself, drawing his legs in as the middle-aged couple sitting next to him inches their way towards their seats. Just keep it in your pants for another goddamn hour and a half.

It is a long hour and a half. Puck’s not in every scene, so York can distract himself with goofy love potion shenanigans, and then every so often he pops up with a swagger and a gleaming grin and gets York all hot and bothered again. By the end of the play he’s fuming quietly, furious at both Tucker for being unfairly attractive, and at his own body for betraying him.

Curtain call starts, Tucker beaming and hand in hand with Oberon and Hermia. York claps begrudgingly – it was a good performance – but as soon as he can he’s out of his seat and fighting through the crowd into the lobby. As he steps out onto the front patio, cool night air washes over him. Fuck, sighs York internally, wishing for a cigarette for the first time in six months. He doesn’t need this.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Opening it, York sees another message from Tex.

 _hey wrap party is tonight @ the grifs place u wanna come?_  (Clinking Beer Mugs ) (Tropical Drink ) (Cocktail Glass ) 

_Grifs?_

_yeah dex is the stage manager and u know his little sister kai?_

_youve met kai right?_

_I don’t think so…?_

_youd like her, shes fun_  (Dancer )(Pineapple )

_anyway u should come_

Wrap party means the cast will be there, which means Tucker most likely will be. But this time York knows better than to ask Tex about it. Paralyzed by indecision, York frowns at his phone as theater goers gradually spill out into the lobby and onto the patio around him, chattering loudly.

_dude dont tell me ur passing up a rocking party_

He wouldn’t normally, York realizes. If it wasn’t for Tucker he’d be jumping at the chance to go. Fuck Tucker, anyway. He’s not going to stop York from doing what he wants! Why should York change what he’s doing to avoid Tucker? Tucker should be the one avoiding  _him._

_Hell no I’m not passing this up, count me in_

_You wanna give me a ride?_

_ughhHHH FINE but u owe me_

_Forever and ever, babe_

\--

When they get to the Grifs’ bungalow it is immediately apparent that they know how to throw a party. Rainbow strings of lights hang from the trees in their front yard, and tiki torches line the path up to their open door, from which loud music and laughter emanate.

Tex strides up to the door, bottle of tequila swinging from her hand, ponytail bouncing, and York follows after her. Inside the house, the music is even louder, bass pulsing through York, blue and purple and green lights dancing over the walls and people within.  

“Yay!” squeals a girl with a mass of dark curly hair and giant neon earrings, and bounds over to plant a big kiss on Tex’s cheek. She has to stand on tiptoe to reach. “What’d you bring – oooh!”

Handing over the tequila, Tex grins. “Kai, this is my good friend York. York, this is Kai, she singlehandedly planned this party so be nice to her.”

Kai’s bouncy charm is kind of adorable, and York smiles at her. “It’s pretty dope!” he yells at her over the music.

She beams at him. “Thanks!”

Without making it obvious, York tries to look for Tucker. Between the crush of people and the dim lights it’s difficult. He doesn’t really see anyone else he knows either, not surprising considering he doesn’t really run with the theater crowd.

Well, maybe Tucker’s not here after all, York thinks, having failed to spot his long hair or gleaming grin anywhere, simultaneously relieved and disappointed. He’ll hang out for a while, get a few drinks, maybe get down with one of the fairies –

“York!” A hand claps down on his shoulder and York spins around to come face to face with Tucker, now in jeans but still shirtless and covered in fairy glitter, smirking at him. “So Tex brought you after all, huh?”

Whipping around, York opens mouth to demand an explanation from her, but she’s mysteriously disappeared into the crowd with Kai. “Yeah,” says York, with a forced smile. “I’m hoping she can hook me up with Titania.”

Tucker snorts. “Nah, dude, you don’t want her, she’ll tell all her girlfriends about it the next morning.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he says into York’s ear, “You might have a better time with Oberon.”

Before York can think of a response Tucker’s gone, shouting cheerfully at someone else and jumping up and down with the music. Skin tingling from Tucker’s breath, York stares after him, fingers twitching uncertainly. Was that a hint? An oblique come-on? A more complicated jab York can’t figure out?

Fuck it. He’s not nearly drunk enough for this.

\--

With several Jägerbombs in him and the music at a comfortably numbing level, York’s feeling a lot more in the party mood. At some point he ends up crammed in the dining room with nearly everybody else, all of them gathered around the table as Kai gleefully hops up, a bottle held high. “Truth or dare!” she yells, to cheers and applause. “I’ll go first! Truth!”

“Have you eaten out a girl?” shouts someone from the crowd.

Kai flips her hair, shiny earrings jangling. “Duh!” A ripple of appreciative laughter rises up. “Boring! Someone ask me another!”

From the kitchen, her brother calls, “True or false, did you eat an entire bag of Jolly Ranchers right before going on a roller coaster and puke all over Mom when you were six?”

York laughs along with several others as Kai rounds furiously on Dex. “Dude, not cool!” she yelps. He shrugs, unrepentant, leaning against the counter.

“Pick someone else!” shouts a guy from the crowd who York vaguely recognizes as being in the play.

“Ugh,  _fine._ ” Kai rolls her eyes, scans the crowd, and a smile spreads across her face as she selects her target. “Tex!”

Tex jumps onto the table, grabbing Kai around the waist, who giggles and stumbles into her. With a sharp-toothed grin, Tex says something into Kai’s ear that only makes her giggle harder. York wolf-whistles up at them.

“Go on,” says Tex, and slaps Kai on the butt as she climbs unsteadily off the table. At some point in the night Tex lost her shirt and she stands tall in sports bra and jeans, her muscles gleaming in the multicolored lights. “Dare!” she yells, surveying the people around her.

Seizing a beer from the counter next to him, York shouts back up at her, “Catch!” and tosses the can up. She snags it out of the air, an eyebrow raised at York.

“Shotgun it!” yells another guy.

Without hesitation Tex smashes the beer against her forehead and downs the frothy brew in one smooth arc. The crowd bursts into screams of delight, York loudly cheering her. She surfaces, triumphant, and wipes beer off her chin. “Who’s next?” she roars, and her eyes fall on York.

Hell yeah, he thinks, as she beckons him forward. Clambering up onto the table – his coordination’s slipping a bit – York squares off against her, ready for a challenge. But Tex just winks at him, a gleam in her eyes, and hops off the table.

“Truth or dare?” shouts someone from the crowd, York can’t quite make out who from the sea of eager faces around him.

Truth is boring. “Dare!”

“Make out with Tucker!” hollers Tex.

Cheers and applause rise from the crowd. By the time York’s brain has caught up with what Tex said, it’s too late to protest, as Tucker jumps up onto the table, facing York. His dark skin is highlighted purple and green and blue, iridescent glitter still dusting his chest and shoulders. Grinning crookedly at York, he raises one eyebrow in challenge. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” he says. “Unless you’re chicken.”

York snorts, trying to mask the heat rising in his gut. “Nah, bro. Are you?”

Swaggering forward, Tucker scoffs, long dreads spilling over one shoulder. “Yeah, like I’d be intimidated by  _kissing._ ”

“How long should they make out for?” demands Tex of the other partygoers. “Thirty seconds?”

Thirty seconds can be a long time, thinks York, and then he sees the glint in Tucker’s eyes and knows the only thing he can do is raise the ante. “Forty-five seconds.”

Tucker meets his gaze dead on. “One minute.”

Several people whoop. York smirks at Tucker, ignoring the strange nervous thrum in his stomach. “All right.”

“Okay!” yells Tex over the music, holding her phone up in one hand. “Make out for one minute. Go!” But York takes a moment to size Tucker up the way Tucker’s watching him, and they approach each other slowly, predatory, on the narrow table. One side of Tucker’s mouth is pulled up in a smile, and his hips move with confidence –

York lunges forward at the same time Tucker does, grabbing him by the neck and mashing their lips together. Tucker seizes his hips, yanking him in, and cheers and wolf whistles rise up around them.

It’s  _good._  Tucker smells like sweat and tastes like whiskey and York sinks down, down into the fire, one hand at the back of Tucker’s neck and the other at his waist. And Tucker gives as good as he gets, kissing York back like it’s a challenge, lips working against his, breath heavy.

“Use tongue!” Tex calls up at them, and York obliges, parting his lips and slipping his tongue into Tucker’s mouth. Tucker just grabs York closer, lips and tongue hot against his. His hands slide down to grab York’s ass, kneading, and York grinds up against him, his skin on fire. Beyond the roar of blood in his ears York hears Tex counting down, “six, five, four, three, two, ONE!”

They break apart with a gasp. York swallows, breathing hard, his heart pounding, hoping that between the dim lighting and his jeans no one will notice his raging boner. Eyes shining and lips slick, Tucker watches him, and then he breaks into a delighted grin. “Dude, you have glitter  _all_  over you.”

York looks down and sure enough, multicolored shimmer dusts the whole front of his shirt and his palms and forearms. “Aw, fuck.”

Tucker’s laugh rings out above the music, genuine and joyous, and for a second the world tilts and spins under York’s unmoving feet. “Oh,” he says faintly, recovering from vertigo. Tucker’s still watching him, dark eyes unreadable, the smile fading into parted lips.

“You have to pick someone!” Kai shouts. “You’re holding up the game!”

“I, uh – Tucker,” says York hoarsely, and stumbles off the table, nearly falling into a couple other people. He’s vaguely aware of Tex watching him like a hawk.

Up on the table, Tucker has his back to York now, muscles in his shoulders defined. “Truth,” he says lazily, to the crowd. “But y’all better ask me something good.”

 “If you could bang one professor here, who would it be?” shouts a guy.

“Ooooh,” says Tucker. “Hmm. Gonna have to say Dr. Mulaney, have you seen her in that red skirt? Bow-chicka- _wow_ -wow _._ ”

Several people laugh. Tucker selects the next victim – a long-haired woman with traces of fairy makeup still on her face – and jumps down from the table. Eyes locked on him, York starts moving through the crowd, around the table to where Tucker is. The bass from the music pounds in tune with his heartbeat, sweat gathers on his temples as he pushes through warm laughing bodies, and he tastes whiskey on his tongue. Drawing up behind Tucker, it’s only right that he put a hand on Tucker’s waist and lean in to say in his ear, “Let’s get out of here.”

Startled, Tucker turns to look at him, eyes wide and dark. York jerks his head towards the nearest door, letting his hand linger on Tucker’s skin as he steps back. And Tucker follows.

Throat dry, York leads Tucker out, into the hallway. As the door closes behind them York seizes Tucker’s wrist, pulling him in, and Tucker meets his lips with a sudden intake of breath.

York sinks into the kiss like melting wax, hands sliding down Tucker’s sides over taut muscle, their breathing loud and heavy in the dark. With sudden fervor Tucker pushes York back up against the wall, a leg pressed in between his, his teeth catching on York’s lower lip. There are too many places for York to put his hands, Tucker’s waist, Tucker’s ass, tangled in his hair, and York keeps moving frenetically from one to the other. Grinding up against York, Tucker kisses him panting and openmouthed, York’s shirt riding up so their bare bellies are pressed together.

“Mm,” says York, disengaging, because a sudden vision of Tex sneaking up on them with her phone out strikes him. “Tuck – Tucker – bathroom –”

“Wha –?” Tucker surfaces, expression hazy. “Why?”

“So we’re not jerking each other off in the hallway, come on.” Pushing off the wall, York tugs on Tucker’s belt loops. Tucker stumbles after him, diving in for another kiss. Catching Tucker’s lips with his own, York wraps an arm around his waist, kissing him messy and uncoordinated. He manages to drag them down to the next door, fumbling behind him for the doorknob.

The door opens and they stagger into the little bathroom, York backing into the sink as Tucker kisses him furiously. With the door shutting behind them, the only light source is a cowrie shell nightlight, a dim orange glow softening the planes of Tucker’s face. Seizing the moment, York yanks his shirt off over his head, grabbing Tucker by the neck to pull him in for another kiss.

“Wait,” pants Tucker, lips barely apart from York’s. “Wait – York –”

“Huh?” York’s dick strains in his jeans, and he kind of wants to lick Tucker from collarbone to navel.

“I’m – I’m not –” Tucker swallows hard and straightens, expression unreadable in the dark. “I’m not gay.”

Blinking at him, York tries to connect that statement with Tucker’s hands on his hips. Distant bass and muffled shouts from the party filter through the walls. “Oh. Well, technically, neither am I.”  

“No, I mean –” says Tucker, licking his lips. “I’m not into dudes.”

The haze in York’s head starts to settle and cool. “Oh,” he says distantly. “But. Uh. Seems like you’re into… this…”

“Yeah,” groans Tucker, gripping York closer, pressing the side of his face into York’s.

And York gets it. Or he thinks he does. “Dude,” he says into Tucker’s ear, reaching down to grab two handfuls of ass, and Tucker shivers. “It’s okay. Just go with it.”

Tucker groans again, mouthing at York’s neck, and each hot press of his lips against York’s skin makes his stomach jump sharply. With their hips interlocked, York feels the hard pressure of Tucker’s hard-on, and he grinds up against it. A heavy breath shudders out of Tucker and he drags his lips up to York’s mouth for another blazing kiss.

Tongue sliding against Tucker’s, York kneads his ass, pulling Tucker up close against him, the cold edge of the sink pressing into York’s back. Breaking the kiss with a gasp, Tucker presses his face to York’s shoulder, his hips grinding against York’s thigh and his hands braced on the sink.

York fumbles at Tucker’s jeans, unzipping them with clumsy fingers. Pulling them down, York palms the front of Tucker’s tenting boxers and Tucker moans, shuddering. Catching Tucker’s earlobe in his teeth, York squeezes at the hard heat of Tucker’s dick, and Tucker gasps and full-body shivers. York could probably get him to come right here like this, but where’s the fun in that?

He drops to his knees and promptly bumps his head against the underside of the sink. “Fuck!” hisses York, wincing.

Tucker’s panting halts. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” mutters York, hooking his fingers in Tucker’s waistband, and pulls his boxers down. In this dim light he can’t see details, but Tucker’s dick is a decent size, erect, and York takes a moment to consider before leaning in and licking him from shaft to head.

Tucker moans, his head dropping and shoulders bowing. His hands on Tucker’s hips to keep him still, York sucks the head of Tucker’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue. The throaty gasp that punches out of Tucker goes straight to York’s dick, and he sucks him in further.

Soon York has a steady rhythm going and Tucker is bent over nearly to the sink. “Oh God,” he groans above York, shuddering. “Ha – hnn – oh, Jesus  _Christ –_ ”

His hips snapping forward is the only warning York gets, and he pulls off just in time to get a hand on Tucker’s dripping dick and stroke him through his orgasm. Tucker’s knees nearly buckle and he moans again, long and drawn-out, before finally growing still.

York’s face is on fire and his pants are incredibly tight and uncomfortable. Getting to his feet, he yanks Tucker into another openmouthed kiss, reaching down to unzip his own jeans. With a sigh of relief York gets his dick free, murmuring into Tucker’s mouth, “Dude, come on, you gotta help me out here –”

Tucker breaks the kiss, eyes glittering in the orange light, and for a second York thinks he’s gonna bail. But Tucker swipes his tongue all over his palm, slow and filthy, and when he wraps his hand around York’s dick it’s so good York wants to cry. “Yeah,” he whispers, leaning into Tucker, his face pressed into the hot crook of Tucker’s neck. “God, yeah, just like that –”

“You like it?” mutters Tucker, stroking York firm and steady, and York whines and nods. “Fuck, yeah, you do, you fucking like it…” His voice trails off as he jerks York off harder, faster, and York’s stomach clenches, his breath coming faster. The muffled party sounds rage outside but in here it’s just them in the dark, the only sounds their echoing panting and the wet noise of Tucker’s hand on York’s cock. York whines again, clutching at Tucker as his whole abdomen draws tight, his hands trembling, his pulse pounding –

He comes before he expects it, jerking and shaking with each wave of release. Tucker keeps a firm grip on his dick, his other arm wrapped around York’s waist, and holds York through the aftershocks, his breathing warm and harsh in York’s ear.

Eyes closed, York gives himself several moments to be still, drawing in the scent of Tucker’s sweat and musk. He could stay here longer, actually, but Tucker pulls away, and York has to hang onto the sink to keep his balance.

“So,” says Tucker hoarsely, and clears his throat. “Um. Hey, do you mind if I…?”

“Huh?” York realizes Tucker’s gesturing at the sink, and moves out of the way, grabbing his shirt. “Oh, yeah, sure…”

Tucker wets a tissue and cleans himself off, not looking at York. I should do the same, York thinks hazily. The cool water is a shock on his overheated skin, clearing his thoughts a little. The silence in the little bathroom is thick, and York searches desperately for something to say. “Bet that glitter situation’s even worse now, huh?”

Drying his hands off, Tucker looks York over. “Probably,” he snorts. “Hey, at least you haven’t been coated in the stuff every night for the past week. I’m going to have to buy new sheets.”

“Want me to help break those in?” says York reflexively. Except he might actually mean it.

Tucker pauses with his hand on the door handle. “Maybe,” he says, and then a grin cracks his face, his usual swagger back in his voice saying, “As if I need help. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.” And with that he’s out the door, heading towards the kitchen.

Leaning back against the sink, York considers what just happened. Not what he would have predicted, a month ago, and with a sudden incredulous thrill he throws his head back and laughs.

\--

Tex keeps glancing at York on the drive home, like she’s looking for something. “What is it?” sighs York, after the umpteenth time she side-eyes him.

“You have glitter on you,” she says matter-of-factly, headlights sweeping the windy canyon road in front of them.

York leans his head on his hand and his elbow on the window sill. “Yeah, because I made out with Tucker like you dared me to.”

“You have a  _lot_ of glitter on you.”

He tried to wash off as much as he could without leaving the poor Grifs’ bathroom a sparkly disaster. Desperately keeping his expression neutral, he says, “Oh.”

Tex narrows her eyes. “I saw you leave with Tucker.”

“Uhhh… yeah.” York can’t help grinning, partially because it was a damn good hookup and partially because he’s pretty sure this puts him ahead of Tucker in whatever competition they’ve got going. “So?”

“So,  _nothing,_  I’m just curious –”

“Uh-huh.” York returns Tex’s suspicious look, the pieces clicking together. “Were you trying to set us up?”

Despite keeping her gaze resolutely on the road, the corners of Tex’s mouth twitch in a smile. “Maybe.”

“Goddammit,” says York, regarding her fondly. “Why?”

“Because you would literally not shut the fuck up about him, that’s why.” Tex wheels the car around a curve, the dark coastline coming into view. “I figured once you two banged you’d get it out of your system.”

York shrugs. “Fair enough.” Except he’s not so sure about out of his system, but that’s a problem for a whole other day. “Hey, you wanna get tacos?”

 “God yes,” mutters Tex. “I’m starving.”

\--

Tucker is very, very grateful to Palomo, who drove him back to campus. So grateful. What a nice guy. Tucker can’t believe he thought he was annoying. Best dude…

Stumbling back into the dorm, Tucker makes it to his bedroom with a lot of help from the walls. It’s dark in the room. But Wash is here, Tucker can hear him breathing. Not in a creepy way. “Wash,” says Tucker, tripping and nearly falling onto his bed. “Wash. Wake’p.”

Wash grumbles something indistinct, rolling over in his blankets.

“ _Wash._ ” Tucker grabs his shoulder and shakes it. “Have a question.”

“Wh- wha…” Pushing himself up, Wash rubs at his face. “Tucker, what the fuck…”

“I have question,” insists Tucker. “Am I gay?”

A few moments of silence. “What?” says Wash.

“Me, and York. Bathroom. At the party,” says Tucker. “Sucked my dick. Does that mean I’m gay?”

Wash says blearily, “You sucked York’s dick…?”

“ _No._ ” This is very important and Tucker doesn’t understand why Wash won’t give him an answer. “ _He_ sucked  _my_ dick. And then I jerked him off.”

“Great, that is way more detail than I ever needed to know,” groans Wash, flopping back down. “Go the fuck to sleep, Tucker.”

“Answer me,” demands Tucker, shaking Wash again. “Am I gay?”

“Yes, you’re super gay. Happy?”

“Yeah.” Tucker grins stupidly. “Yeah. Good night, Wash.”

Wash mumbles something that might be “Good night.” Lurching over to his own bed, Tucker collapses onto the covers and is out like a light.


	7. *gasp* adam!

Cracking his eyes open, Tucker reaches for his phone and – aw, fuck. Nine-fifty-four a.m., he must have slept through his alarms. For a minute Tucker lies there, head aching, debating whether it’s worth getting up to come to class an hour late.

It’s really not, he decides, but boy does he have to piss. Groaning, Tucker gets out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom. Dammit, by the time he can get down to the caf they’ll be done serving breakfast, too. All he wants right now is some fucking tater tots.

The wrap party last night was worth it, though. Washing his hands, Tucker looks up at himself in the mirror – his hair’s gotten frizzy, he should probably spend some time on that, and glitter is scattered all over his chest, and there’s a mark on his lower lip like it’s been bitten…

Tucker’s expression grows slack as memories of last night come creeping back in. “Shit,” he whispers. He hooked up with York. With _York,_ his least favorite person. And it was totally hot. “Oh, _fuck._ ”

Splashing cold water over his face, Tucker sighs and straightens, cracking his neck. He came home pretty sloshed, he remembers that, and… he was bothering Wash about _something._ Tucker brushes his teeth, trying to figure out what, but keeps coming up blank.

Going back to his room, he flops on his bed and grabs his phone.

_Hey man sorry I woke you up last night I was pretty hammered_

_Did I ask you something?_

Wash doesn’t respond until Tucker’s gotten dressed and made it down to the caf, where he settles for pizza instead of greasy potatoes. _Yeah, you asked if you were gay._

Freezing mid-chew, Tucker stares down at his phone.

_And… what did you say?_

_I don’t know. I was half asleep._

Putting his phone back in his pocket, Tucker swallows down pizza that’s turned to clay in his mouth. It’s not that being gay is _bad,_ it’s just not him! He’s Lavernius Tucker, ladies’ man! He’s not going to let some polo-shirted frat bro change that.

But it _was_ pretty hot, a small voice in his mind says.

Groaning internally, Tucker scrunches his eyes up and presses the heels of his palm to his forehead. Fucking – whatever. It was one night. Not a big deal.

It doesn’t change anything.

\--

York’s not all that surprised when Tucker misses advertising class on Monday, he’s probably nursing a killer hangover. But on Wednesday, York starts to think it might be something else when Tucker enters class and sits in literally the farthest seat away from York, instead of his usual one in front of him.

They’re not working on group projects today, so York doesn’t get a chance to talk to him, but it definitely seems like Tucker’s avoiding even looking at him. Annoyed, York screws up a little ball of paper and throws it at Tucker when Professor Ahn’s back is turned, but Tucker only glances at him before turning quickly back to the front of the room.

What the fuck? Is he regretting the sex or something? Tucker seemed pretty pleased with it that night, but once the alcohol fades, who knows… Folding his arms, York leans back in his seat, trying to ignore how his stomach knots uncomfortably in worry. The rest of class passes with York unable to concentrate on what’s being taught. Finally, they’re dismissed, and Tucker is out of his seat in a flash and heading straight for the door.

Annoyed, York hurries after him, catching up with Tucker in the hall. “Hey,” he says, grabbing his elbow, “what the fuck is up with you –”

“What are you talking about?” demands Tucker, yanking his arm out of his grasp.

“You’re avoiding me –”

Tucker’s eyes widen. “I’m not avoiding you, I’m –” He leans in, hisses, “I’m trying not to make this weird, all right?”

York blinks, thoroughly confused. “Make what weird?”

Glancing nervously at the students walking through the hallway, Tucker steps in closer and whispers fiercely, “Because we hooked up! I don’t want it to be weird!”

For a second, York can only stare at him, trying to parse exactly what he means. “What do you mean, weird?”

“Like, you know. Different.” Tucker gestures helplessly.

“But you _are_ acting different.”

“No, that’s – I’m not –” Tucker drags his hands through his hair in frustration, saying, “I just don’t want to make it _obvious,_ all right?”

Cold trickles down York’s spine as he realizes what Tucker’s getting at. “You don’t want people to know,” he says quietly. “You’re ashamed.”

“What? _No –_ ”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that,” says York icily, and strides away, down the stairs into the building lobby. He should have known, what with the “I’m not gay” and all that. He should have _known_ –

“York!” Panting, Tucker catches up with him, a hand on his shoulder. York shakes it off. “Dude, look – listen to me – that’s not what I meant –”

“Then what did you mean, Tucker?” snaps York.

Tucker glares at him, eyebrows lowering. “Come on,” he mutters, seizing York’s arm to pull him. York yanks free again but follows him into the nearest empty classroom, the lights automatically flickering on as they enter.

The door closes behind them and York sits on one of the desks, arms folded. “All right, what is it?” he demands.

“Look,” sighs Tucker, standing in front of him. “You know how like, when you hook up with someone, and it’s _really_ awkward the next morning? Because you don’t know how to act around each other now that you’ve banged?”

York stares at him. “Not… really?”

“That’s never happened to you?” says Tucker in disbelief.

“No, because I don’t get worked up about casual sex.” Crossing one leg over the other, York regards Tucker, who stands with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, shoulders hunched under his black bomber jacket. “Have you ever actually had sex before?”

“Yes!” says Tucker, indignant.

“Okay, just checking.” The uncomfortable knot in York’s stomach has loosened slightly. “You know you’re doing exactly what you don’t want to, though? You’re making it awkward by avoiding me and shit.”

“Oh.” Tucker’s defiant expression deflates. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Shit. Well, I’m sorry,” says Tucker stiffly. “And for the record, I’m not – I’m not ashamed, all right? I don’t regret it.”

Warmth blooms in York, from his gut all the way to his heart. “Yeah?”

“Dude, hell yeah,” snorts Tucker, and his cocky tone makes York’s heart grow inexplicably light. “It was fucking _hot._ ”

York can’t help it; he grins. “Yeah, it was.”

For a second they just stand there, smiling stupidly at each other, and then Tucker says, “Anyways, I gotta get to class –”

“Oh,” says York, pushing off the desk. “Yeah, me too –”

Tucker goes to the door, but before he can open it York jumps forward, grabbing his arm. “Tucker –” He stops and turns, and York pulls him into a resounding kiss.

Tucker yanks him closer, their lips pressed together for three blazing seconds, and then York releases him with a gasp. “I’ll see you later.”

Breathing sharp, eyes dark, Tucker nods and smiles. “Yeah.”

\--

“Hey, man,” says Tucker as York opens the apartment door. “How’s it going?”

York shrugs, stepping back to let Tucker in. “All right. You?”

“Pretty good.” Crossing the threshold, Tucker surveys York and North’s apartment – it’s nice, decently sized with a couple of big windows for natural light, their furniture a little worn but solidly made. There’s a big Argentinian flag tacked onto the wall. “You went to Buenos Aires?”

“Yup.” York looks fondly up at the flag. “It was awesome. You know where you’re studying abroad yet?”

“I dunno. Shanghai sounds dope, but then I’d have to learn Chinese.” Tucker wrinkles his nose.

Chuckling, York flops down on the couch, his bronze-brown hair glittering in the afternoon sunlight. “Yeah, it’s a pain. At least it’s useful, though.”

“You mean, unlike French or Italian?” Tucker sets his backpack down on the round dining table.

York snorts. “North went to Lausanne. He was like, one of five guys in the entire program.”

Considering each study abroad program accepts forty to sixty students, that’s probably a good situation for North. “What about Tex?”

“Buenos Aires.” York grins. “That’s where we met, actually.”

 “Oh, neat.”

Eventually they get around to actually working on the ADV 101 project, trying to turn all the rough info and scribbled notes they have into a report. It’s slow going, and over the next couple of hours York’s attention starts to clearly wane. “Dude,” says Tucker, looking up from his laptop as York paces the front room of the apartment. “Seriously?’

Grimacing, York throws himself into a chair, scrubbing at his hair and sending the carefully-styled spikes into disarray. “Look, I know it’s important to you,” he mutters. “I just don’t really care, all right? This is just some dumb elective.”

“Okay, great,” says Tucker. “We still have to get this done.”

York mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “I’d rather get you done.”

Pausing with his hands above the keyboard, Tucker raises an eyebrow, a sudden idea coming to him. “How about this,” he says. “You focus and work with me on this for the next forty-five minutes, and then we can fuck?” As the words leave his mouth a little thrill runs through him.

York laughs incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Fine, if you don’t want to just say so,” retorts Tucker, nettled. “I thought you might be down –”

“Oh, I’m down,” says York quickly, eyes round and genuine. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask like that.”

Smirking because he could throw York off his game, Tucker says, “So we have a deal?”

With a crooked smile, York leans forward and holds his hand out. Tucker grasps it firmly. “Yeah,” says York. “All right. What part are we on?”

It goes better after that. York puts in real effort, even getting interested in the actual work. Whether unintentionally or by design, he gradually moves closer to Tucker until his chair is bumping up against Tucker’s, their knees touching together. Tucker figures it’s on purpose, and pretends not to notice. But as they near the forty-five minute mark, Tucker can feel York’s attention fixed on him like a heat lamp. “It’s been forty-five minutes,” says York, the second the clock ticks over.

Keeping his gaze resolutely on the screen, ignoring the sudden jolt of adrenaline in his stomach, Tucker lazily says, “I guess it has.”

Scooting the chair even closer, York rests his chin on his folded arms, staring avidly at Tucker. “We made a deal.”

Tucker sighs and accepts defeat, saving his work. “All right, fine,” he says, closing the laptop and turning to York. “Damn, you really –”

Closing the distance, York grabs Tucker’s face in both hands and pulls him into a kiss so forcefully their teeth click. Tucker grunts in surprise but doesn’t break the kiss out of sheer stubbornness, one hand wrapping around York’s elbow. As his fingers press into Tucker’s head York catches his bottom lip in his teeth, tugging, and Tucker involuntarily groans.

York lets go of him to chuckle under his breath. “Yeah, I figured it wasn’t just me.”

“Fuck you,” says Tucker conversationally, his hand still curved around York’s forearm.

A dangerous grin spreads across York’s face. “That’s the idea,” he says, blue-gray eyes bright, and tugs Tucker in for another kiss.

They go at it for a little while, Tucker refusing to let York get the upper hand, so it’s all parting lips and gasping breaths and grabbing at each other. The angle of the chairs gets awkward real fast and Tucker tries to pull York over into his lap. But York breaks free and gets to his feet, lips and cheeks flushed, one hand held out to Tucker.

Tucker looks down at his hand and back up at York, eyebrows raised. “What?”

Rolling his eyes and withdrawing his hand, York says, “Jesus, I was just trying to be nice –”

“Don’t, it’s weird.” Getting to his feet, Tucker grabs the front of York’s sweatshirt and tugs him into another kiss.

“You’re such a dick,” York mutters, their faces barely apart.

A grin spreads across Tucker’s face. “I’ve sure got one,” he says, looping his arms around York’s waist. “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

York’s groan is cut off sharply by Tucker smashing his lips against his. Kissing Tucker back roughly, York moves in on him, pushing them towards the bedroom. His hands steal under the hem of Tucker’s shirt, hot on his skin, and little shivers run down Tucker’s spine. As York tugs him along and into the bedroom, his lips working against Tucker’s, a feeling like swooping on a rollercoaster hits him. He doesn’t know where this is going beyond the immediate, but he doesn’t care.

The door shuts behind them. York kisses Tucker like he doesn’t know where he wants his lips, his hands, his body, like he’s trying to touch every bit of Tucker he can reach. Reaching up, Tucker grabs York’s jaw to hold his face still for a long, heavy kiss. “Mm,” says York, his hands sliding over the small of Tucker’s back.

“I can’t kiss you if you don’t hold still,” Tucker says.

He feels York’s grin under his lips. “So fucking make me –”

It’s a dumb line and York’s absolutely doing it on purpose and it fucking works on Tucker anyway, the challenge rising in his blood. He seizes York’s face in both his hands, lips pressed up against his as York jerks and tries to pull away. Sniggering, Tucker hangs onto the kiss – until York bites at his bottom lip. Yelping, Tucker jumps back. “Not fair!”

York’s eyes glint wickedly, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “What, you can’t handle playing dirty?” and he tugs on Tucker’s belt loops, making Tucker stumble forward into him.

“I’ll show you dirty,” growls Tucker, and grabs York’s crotch.

Gasping, York yanks Tucker in for another kiss, his lips burning on Tucker’s, his faint stubble rough on Tucker’s skin. His hands grab at Tucker’s shirt, pulling it up, and Tucker races to get York’s sweatshirt off first. They end up tangled in each other’s clothes, Tucker fighting with York’s oversized Bloodgulch University sweatshirt, and when he finally manages to throw it aside he dives right back in for York.

York grabs him, pushing towards the bed, but this time his lips fasten hungrily on Tucker’s neck. Hissing, Tucker tilts his head back, closing his eyes at the bright prick of pain. York’s hands rake down Tucker’s sides to seize his hips, and Tucker seizes a fistful of York’s hair and tugs experimentally.

The groan that York makes is deep and needy. Tucker tugs again and York goes pliable in his arms, his eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah, there you go,” mutters Tucker, pulling York’s head back to bare the rough tan skin of his throat. “God, you’re fucking dying for it…”

York groans again, head rolling to the side. Sitting down on the bed, Tucker pulls York down with him, and he slides easily onto Tucker’s lap, straddling his hips. The blinds in York’s room are half-drawn, so stripes of light and shadow cross his face, his body. York grabs the hem of his t-shirt and yanks it off over his head, baring his rippling muscles to those stripes of illumination. One band of light falls across York’s face, turning his eyes pale sapphire, and Tucker gazes up at him with a dry throat and pounding pulse. He drags a hand down York’s washboard abs, torn between envy and desire, and York shivers.

“You’re fucking pretty,” says Tucker. “I hate it.”

York grins crookedly again, eyes crinkling. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” promises Tucker, wrapping a hand around the back of York’s neck. “It’s driving me insane,” and he pulls him into another kiss.

This one is long and slow and burns like good whiskey. Tucker presses a thumb into York’s throat, his face tilted up towards York, whose hands slide over Tucker’s shoulders, his collarbone, his chest. At the touch on his nipples Tucker jumps, breath catching, and York makes a small pleased sound. “Sensitive, huh?” he murmurs.

“Don’t make me go for your hair again,” Tucker warns.

Another shiver ripples over York, his eyes fastened on Tucker, his lips parted. Tucker’s stomach clenches, his cock straining in his jeans, and he kisses York. As Tucker grabs York’s hips, York grinds up against him, and the friction and pressure send little waves of pleasure up through him. Breathing rough and heavy, York drags his hands down Tucker’s chest again, and before Tucker quite realizes what he’s doing York’s got both their pants unzipped.

Lifting his hips, York pulls his cargo shorts and boxers down enough to get his dick out. Tucker’s not gonna lie, it’s a little weird seeing another dude’s dick this close. But he’s so hard at this point he doesn’t really care, and when York gets a hand in Tucker’s jeans, Tucker just about loses all rational thought. Their faces smashed together again, York tugs Tucker’s cock out, and then he’s got a hand wrapped around both of them, skin pressed against skin, and Tucker moans low and breathless.

York breaks the kiss to twist away, reaching for something on his bedside table. Dazed, Tucker follows the long line of his body and arm with his eyes, realizes that York’s got a bottle of lube, and he squirts some out into his palm and wraps his hand around both their dicks and Tucker presses his face to York’s shoulder and pants for air. “Yeah,” he gasps, as York strokes them both off, hot and slick – “oh God – yeah – fuck – oh _fuck,_ York, fuck, fff – hah – _ah –_ ”

Wrapping his arms around York, Tucker grabs tight to him with both hands, his body shaking, and York breathes ragged with one hand on the back of Tucker’s neck, his hips bucking upwards in time with his hand. Tucker moans again, louder, and again, he can’t help it, the pressure inside him builds and builds and it feels so good, too good, he can’t take it, he can’t hold it in. He comes with a long, shaky cry, and York jerks and shudders in his arms before also going still.

“Fuck,” sighs Tucker, his forehead resting on York’s sweaty shoulder. He can faintly hear the pounding of York’s heart. York swallows hard, slowly lifting his sticky hand, and kind of nuzzles at Tucker’s hair. It’s not too bad like this, Tucker thinks. He feels good and worn out, content to just sit here, he’s probably got a little while before he has to leave for class…

Shit.

“What time is it?” demands Tucker, lifting his head, and York pulls back. Grabbing his phone out of his pocket, Tucker checks the time and – _shit._ Three-forty-nine. “Fuck!” yelps Tucker, pushing York off; he stumbles but keeps his footing. “I’m gonna be late for class –”

Grabbing a handful of tissues, he wipes himself off as best he can and tucks himself back in, pulling his pants up. York just kind of sits on the bed, looking bemused. Frantically, Tucker looks around for his shirt, it was black so it might be blending in with York’s navy bedding –

Wordlessly, York holds out Tucker’s shirt. “Thanks, man,” says Tucker, grabbing it and pulling it on. “Hey, uh – good work on the project, we’ll – we’ll talk in class –”

York laughs a little. “Okay –”

Dashing out of the room and into the kitchen, Tucker grabs his laptop and – oh. There’s North, sitting on the couch and playing video games, Halo by the looks of it. When did he get here? If it was in the last ten to fifteen minutes, then he _definitely_ heard what Tucker and York were up to. Tucker’s cheeks grow warm but he determinedly ignores it and instead puts on his chillest grin. “Hey, man,” he says, packing up his laptop and charger.

“Hey,” says North, with a faint smile, looking up from the TV. “Tucker, right?”

“Yup.” Tucker hefts his backpack on his shoulders, aware in his peripheral of York coming out of his room. “Gotta go, late for class. Talk to you later!” And with that he’s out, slamming the door behind him as he dashes for his car.

Despite driving like a maniac Tucker makes it to campus a good five minutes after class starts, and then of course because it’s late he has to park in the big parking lot down the hill and trek up to class. He walks in to his sociology class ten minutes late, sweaty and disheveled, thankful that it’s a big class in a lecture hall where he can just drop into a seat in the back and barely anyone will notice.

As the professor drones on about bystander effect or whatever, Tucker finally has a moment to process the last hour or so. Not what he’d been planning to do with his afternoon, but he can’t say he regrets it.

Maybe you want to do it again, suggests a little voice in his head.

Tucker considers. Might be nice to get some time for something more than rushed jobs, get York all stripped down and really begging for him –

Swallowing hard, face growing warm again, Tucker chews on his pen while staring at the presentation on the screen without reading it. Yeah. Definitely again.

\--

“Hey, man,” Tucker says from the kitchen, and York freezes. North must have come home, York didn’t hear the door open, but apparently…

“Hey,” says North. “Tucker right?”

Slowly, York gets to his feet, tossing the dirty wad of tissues into his trash can. “Yup,” says Tucker, casual and cheery. As York walks out into the little hallway, he sees Tucker putting his backpack on and heading to the door, North seated on the couch. “Gotta go, late for class. Talk to you later!”

The apartment door slams shut. Feeling odd, York crosses into the bathroom and closes the door, turning the sink on to wash himself off a little better. He feels… a little hollow. Kind of wishes Tucker hadn’t left so quickly, actually. Which is silly, it’s not like Tucker _wanted_ to leave, he had class. Splashing cold water over his face, York sighs at his reflection in the mirror. His bottom lip is bitten red, his hair a complete mess.

Rubbing the back of his neck, York walks  back out into the front room to stand beside the sofa, watching North gunning down aliens with deadly accuracy. “What part are you on?” York asks.

“Sangheili mission.”

“Oh.”

York watches for a little while longer before puttering around the kitchen, hunting for snacks. Nothing looks particularly appealing and he cracks open a soda instead. “So,” says North, attention still fixed on the TV. “Tucker, huh?”

Swallowing, York says, “Yeah? So what?”

North shrugs. “At least he’s not a pledge,” he mutters, eyebrows raised.

Irritation surges up in York and he drains the soda. “Suck a dick, North,” he snaps, tossing the can into the trash. Grabbing his keys and flipflops, York says, “I’m going to the gym.”

“York –”

He doesn’t wait for North to finish. Shutting the door behind him, York steps out into the afternoon sunlight, sighing and rolling his shoulders to relieve tension. Stupid, for him to get worked up over a casual hookup like this. He blames it on North and his self-righteous meddling. It’s not North’s business who he fucks, anyway.

York walks halfway to the gym before he realizes he’s in flipflops, not sneakers, and cargo shorts instead of workout clothes, and he doesn’t have his water bottle or anything. It’s not warm enough that he wants to sit at the pool, but he can’t go back to the apartment soon either.

He ends up texting Tex.

_Hey you wanna get burritos or something?_

_hell yeah_ (Smiling Face With Open Mouth And Smiling Eyes ) (Smiling Face With Open Mouth And Smiling Eyes ) (Smiling Face With Open Mouth And Smiling Eyes )

_where are u_

_Apartment_

_cool i’ll be over in 5_


	8. do you know jesus loves you?

“So,” says Tucker, over lunch in the caf. “Y’all know which study abroad program you’re applying for?”

Stabbing at his salad, Wash immediately says, “Not Shanghai.” Tucker, Kai, and Carolina look at him in surprise at his sudden vehemence. “And don’t start with that ‘but it’s your heritage’ crap –”

“None of us would say that, Wash,” says Carolina gently.

Sighing, Wash rubs at his face. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. I’ve just been getting that a lot lately.” They’ve found a table by the big window wall, the ocean view outside muted by gray clouds today. The caf bustles with the lunch rush, pop tunes filtering through the overhead speakers.

“I’m torn between Shanghai and Buenos Aires, to be honest,” says Tucker. “They both sound really cool –”

“You don’t want to learn Chinese, trust me,” mutters Wash.

Eyes shining, Kai says, “If you go to Shanghai you get to ride _elephants._ ”

“That’s like, one field trip.”

“Yeah, basically my only option is London, and even then I can only go for a semester,” sighs Carolina, frowning. “They’re the only program offering any bio classes.”

Kai chirps, “Aww, it’s okay, you can hang out here with me!” She grins at Carolina. “Malibu program for the win.”

Carolina returns her smile wanly. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just, Tex went off to Argentina and had all these adventures, and London just isn’t the same, and…” She glares down at her half-finished plate of fish. “But it’s the only program I can make work with my major.”

“I’m sure your dad would understand,” says Wash quietly, looking at her.

Tucker adds more hot sauce to his chicken strips, not entirely sure what Wash is talking about. “Why would he get mad? You’re like, being responsible and finishing your degree.”

“He wouldn’t get _mad_ , just…” Carolina sighs again and shakes her bangs out of her eyes. “Never mind. It’s not like I have a whole lot of options, anyway.”

Kai frowns at her in concern. “You don’t want to go to London?”

“It’s all right, just not my first choice.” Carolina shrugs.

Wash asks, “Where would you go, if you didn’t have to worry about classes?”

“Shanghai,” Carolina says, with a wry laugh. “It looks amazing. But…”

“But they don’t have the classes you need to graduate,” finishes Wash.

“Yeah.” Carolina pokes at her lunch again.

Tucker eats in silence, not sure what to say. On the one hand, Carolina should absolutely do what she wants, fuck her dad and whatever weird expectations he apparently has. On the other, a bio degree is a big deal, especially with the amount of classes Carolina needs to take. “Hey,” he says. “I’m sure London’ll be dope.”

“Tucker,” says Carolina. “You don’t really think that.”

Grimacing, Tucker acknowledges, “No, I don’t.” London sounds stuffy and boring and lame. “But it’s for nerds, and you’re kind of a nerd.”

“No way!” protests Kai. “ _Wash_ is a nerd. Carolina’s a jock –”

“She’s taking eighteen units and getting A’s in all her classes,” retorts Tucker.

“Oh-em-gee, ‘nerd’ isn’t about being smart, it’s about an _attitude –_ ”

“I’m flattered,” says Wash dryly, and at least that brings a smile to Carolina’s face.

\--

York likes Fridays. He only has one class, and in the morning he goes to the gym with Tex – and lately Tucker and Wash. Today is a beautiful Friday morning, gray and drizzly, and York hits the gym with a spring in his step. He spots Tex at bench press, pisses Tucker off with his “NETFLIX AND GRILL” bro tank, and races Tucker on the treadmill because no way is York going to lose a contest in _stamina._

He wins, but only just barely, staggering to a walk a second after Tucker does. “Good job,” pants York, as the treadmill slows under his feet.

“You started running after me,” gasps Tucker, bracing himself against his treadmill arms. “It’s a tie.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Breathing heavy, heart pounding, York leans against his treadmill and watches as Tex and Wash practice krav, over on the mats. Tucker watches too, taking a long drink of water. “They’re pretty good,” Tucker says casually, putting his bottle down.

“Yeah, Tex has been doing martial arts since like… forever.” York wipes his face off with his towel. “Her and Carolina both apparently. Their dad paid for them to get some pretty top-notch classes.”

“Yeah,” says Tucker, looking back at York with a curious expression. “Speaking of. You know if anything’s up with their family?”

A warning bell dings in York’s head, and he keeps his face neutral and pleasant. “Not really. Why?”

Tucker shrugs. “Just the way Carolina was talking about her dad the other day, made me wonder if there was something going on.”

“Well, if there was, it wouldn’t be my place to talk about it,” says York easily, wondering what exactly Carolina said. He’d gotten the impression she was even more guarded about home life than Tex.

“Yeah,” sighs Tucker, looking back at the sparring partners. “I thought so –”

Tex yelps suddenly and goes tumbling, Wash spinning around with the momentum from a kick. “Oh, damn,” says York. If Wash landed a hit on Tex, that’s pretty impressive…

Sitting up, Tex brings a hand up to her face and looks at it, and even from across the gym York can see the bright red smear of blood. He takes half a step off the treadmill, unsure if he should go over or not; from what Tex says it’s pretty common to get popped in the face, and a bloody nose isn’t all that bad.

“Is she okay?” asks Tucker, frowning.

“Oh my God,” Wash is saying, reaching for Tex, “I’m so sorry –”

Raising her fists in the air, Tex crows “Yeah!” and grins triumphantly through the blood streaming from her nose. "He finally god be!" 

“Oh, Christ,” mutters York, grabbing his towel and running over to Tex. Wash hovers, looking contrite, as York kneels by her. “Here –”

Tex looks down at the towel he’s handing to her. “Why?”

“Because you’re bleeding all over yourself.”

“Oh.” Tex takes the towel and dabs gingerly at her face, her smile fading to a worried frown. “Id’s a lod ob blood.”

She’s not wrong. It’s trickling down her neck to stain her tank top, and there are dark splatters on the blue foam mats. York keeps a hand on her shoulder as she holds the rapidly-reddening towel up to her nose, Tucker hurrying up beside Wash. “Holy _shit,_ dude, what did you do –”

“It was an accident!” protests Wash, voice going high-pitched. “I didn’t mean – Tex, I’m so sorry –”

Tex holds her nose experimentally, and it _moves._ “I thig by nose id brogen,” she says, wobbly. Wash goes pale.

“I think maybe you should see the nurse,” says Tucker; his voice is tight but he looks calm, at least.

The student medical center is all the way up the hill, a fifteen minute walk at least. “Yeah…” sighs York, considering logistics.

“I’ll get my car,” squeaks Wash, and hurries out of the gym.

“Id’s fine!” protests Tex, trying to stand. “I can walg –”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” York pulls her down to sit, settling cross-legged next to her. Across from them Tucker sinks onto his haunches, forehead wrinkled in concern. “Just hang tight for a minute.”

Tex obeys, leaning into York a little, her blonde head bowed. Uneasy, York looks up at Tucker, who grimaces sympathetically. “Must have been some kick, huh,” he says to Tex, in a patient, friendly tone York’s never heard before.

She grins again behind the towel. “Hell yeah.”

A sudden thought hits York, his stomach sinking. “Tex… you didn’t _let_ Wash kick you, did you?”

“Whad? No.” She looks at him askance. “Why would I do thad?”

Looking away, York shrugs, not sure where the sudden lump in his gut came from. “I dunno.”

Her gray eyes narrow at him over the towel. “Whad’s up with you –”

York is spared from answering by Wash pulling up outside, his gray Toyota Corolla visible through the glass doors. “C’mon,” says York, helping Tex up, Tucker waiting on her other side with hands held up. Tex staggers but keeps her footing as they walk out to the car, Wash hurrying to open the door.

“I should, uh, probably tell the cleaning staff or something,” says Tucker. “About the blood.”

“Probably a good idea.” York gets in the back seat with Tex, who leans her head back with a sigh, eyes closed.

Twisting to look over his shoulder, Wash says, “Tex, I’m –”

“If you say you are sorry again, I ab going to break your nose in redribution,” deadpans Tex.

“Right,” says Wash, turning back to the wheel and stepping on the gas. “Sorry.”

They pull out of the parking lot, leaving Tucker walking around to the gym office. Tex keeps dabbing at her face with the towel, and it looks to York as if the flow’s stopped at least a little. “Rob is going to be pissed,” mutters Wash, glancing back at them in the rearview mirror.

Rob is the krav maga instructor. Tex attempts a snort that quickly becomes a pained whimper; alarmed, York turns towards her. She just shakes her head, eyes scrunched up tight. “I’b fine,” she manages. But when York puts a hand on her knee, she squeezes it with a little grateful smile.

\--

Tucker finds Tex outside the theater, sunset painting the sky pale gold and orange. “Hey, Tex,” he says, walking towards her. “How’re you feeling?”

She grins, sporting two spectacular black eyes, a white bandage taped across her nose. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Tucker sits down beside her on the front steps, the concrete still gently warm from a day of sun. “I’m surprised you’re working.”

Dressed in her stagehand blacks, Tex shrugs. “I’m fine, honestly. It’s just my face.”

“Guess so.”

They sit together in silence for a little while, watching the parking lot in front of them. A car leaves every so often, students or teachers or staff going home for the evening. “God, I wish I had a smoke,” mutters Tex.

Tucker looks at her in surprise. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.” Tex fiddles with a chip of concrete. “York and I quit together after we got back from Buenos Aires. Made a suicide pact – if one of us smokes, the other can have a cigarette too.”

Her voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s a quiet tenderness behind it. “You really love him a lot, huh,” says Tucker. He’s not even jealous or anything (not that he would be). If anything, he’s a little in awe.

Smiling fondly, Tex says, “Yeah.”

“How come you two aren’t dating?”

“'Cause we’d be a shitty couple, that’s why.” Tex flicks the concrete chip into the parking lot. “He’d want what I can’t give him.”

Arms folded across his knees, Tucker frowns, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “You mean… sex?”

“No,” laughs Tex, pulling her ponytail through her fingers. “We actually hooked up a couple times at first. It’s just, York’s a romantic guy, you know? Behind the brosona. He gets attached. And I can’t… I don’t deal well. With. That.”

“Oh.” There’s a lot to unpack in that, not the least “York gets attached.” Tucker picks at a hangnail, examining the pink half-moon of his thumbnail. “At least you guys figured that out.”

“Yeah. Speaking of,” and Tex’s tone does a one-eighty, her sharp gaze falling on Tucker. “What’s up with you and him, anyway?”

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. “Nothing,” says Tucker lightly.

Tex eyes him suspiciously. “You keep hooking up. Are you dating, or what?”

Tucker’s stomach does a little panicked jump at the word “dating.” “No! Nah, we’re just getting together. You know. Friends with benefits –”

“Because here’s the thing,” says Tex. “I like you. You’re a fun guy. But York is my best fucking friend in the entire world, and if you break his heart I promise I will make you regret it.”

A shiver runs down Tucker’s spine; Tex’s voice is deadly serious, her expression steely. “Okay,” he says quietly.

“Okay?”

“I – I got it.” Tucker clears his throat, straightening his shoulders. “I won’t break his heart. Promise.”

Looking somewhat mollified, Tex sighs. “All right.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, booted heels scraping against the asphalt. “Thanks.”

\--

“You’ve never seen _Lord of the Rings,_ ” says York, staring at Tucker. “You’ve _never_ seen _LORD OF THE RINGS –_ ”

“What’s the big deal?” retorts Tucker, their advertising project lying forgotten on the desk between them. “I’m just not into that kind of movie –”

Looking as offended as if Tucker just insulted his mothers, York leans back in his seat, shaking his head. “ _Dude,_ ” he says. “They’re like, _cultural milestones._ I don’t know if I can keep hanging out with you if you haven’t seen them.”

And that’s how Tucker ends up sprawled on the couch in his dorm’s common room, York lounging next to him, as Frodo and Bobo and Hobo and Dumbledore go trekking through the wilderness. “This is boring,” he grumbles.

York glares at him. “Maybe if you paid attention –”

“They’re just walking! That’s all this movie is!”

Sighing heavily, York slouches further down the couch, his arms folded over his chest. “At least let me enjoy the movie,” he mutters.

It’s a long movie. Tucker gradually moves more and more towards horizontal on the couch until he’s nearly perpendicular to York, his ankles knocking up against York’s legs. “Oh, shit,” says Tucker. “That’s the guy! The meme guy! The ‘don’t simply walk into Mordor’ guy!”

“Yeah,” laughs York, his arm draped over the sofa back. “That’s the guy.”

Tucker actually kind of likes this Boromir dude; he seems like the only practical person in the entire story. And the giant fire demon that Dumbledore fights is kind of cool, too. “Damn,” whispers Tucker, his legs now fully draped across York’s lap, as he watches the Fellowship collapse in grief.

“Yeah,” says York, a little hoarse.

The door opens, and Wash and Carolina walk in, carrying Styrofoam food cartons from which the scent of cheeseburgers drifts up enticingly. “ _Fellowship?_ ” says Wash, pausing to look at the screen.

“It’s actually pretty good,” offers Tucker.

Carolina looks him and York over. “Are you guys _cuddling_?”

“Uh…” Tucker looks over at York, who’s half-reclined behind Tucker, with an arm resting on Tucker’s knees. “No, we’re just hanging out.”

“Right,” snorts Carolina, with a very Tex-like inflection.

“We are!” protests Tucker.

York, faintly amused, is still focused on the TV screen. “Hey, you guys can stick around, but you can’t talk through the movie.”

“Oh, okay.” Carolina rolls her eyes, walking with Wash towards the hall. “Have fun, you guys.”

The movie progresses. “No!” shouts Tucker, sitting up straight as an arrow shoots straight into Boromir’s chest. “No way, he’s gotta be okay, right – right?”

Boromir is not okay. Slumping back under York’s arm, eyes stinging, Tucker watches mutely as Boromir succumbs to multiple arrows. They even have a sad choir singing and everything. “That’s messed up, man,” says Tucker hoarsely. “He didn’t even get to tell Frodo he was sorry…”

York gives him a little squeeze, his arm wrapped around Tucker’s shoulders.

Tucker recovers a little as the movie continues; he knows Sam and Frodo going off is supposed to be a big emotional thing but he’s not really a fan of either. “Damn,” says Tucker, as the end credits roll. His stomach growls, empty. “I guess that was kind of good.”

A grin spreads across York’s face. “Kind of?”

“You know.” Tucker shrugs, unwilling to admit defeat. “Hey, you wanna get food? I’m starving.”

\--

The mail room is full of freshmen, some pushing through the crowd in nervous anticipation, others clutching yellow manila folders to their chests in glee. Tucker dodges around two girls who are screaming in excitement and hugging each other and reaches for his mailbox, fingers fumbling on the combination lock. Jostled by people next to him, he manages to get his box open, and there’s an envelope in there, and Tucker rips it open and frantically scans the first page inside –

            _Congratulations on your acceptance to the Buenos Aires study abroad program._

“Yeah!” whoops Tucker, punching the air with his acceptance letter held high. “I got it! I GOT IT!”

Finding Wash in the crowd, he rushes over to him. “What’d you get?” yells Tucker.

With a grin, Wash displays his acceptance letter to Tucker. Buenos Aires.

“Hell yeah!” Tucker side-tackles Wash in sheer exuberance, Wash laughing and struggling to stay on his feet. “The dream team is going to Argentina!”

“Yeah,” laughs Wash. But his dark eyes search the crowd. “Where’s Carolina?”

One arm still slung around Wash’s shoulders, Tucker looks around for a distinctive head of red hair. “Over there,” he says, pointing to the corner.

She leans against the wall, staring down at the paper in her hands, not paying any attention to the exuberant students around her. Immediately Wash throws Tucker’s arm off and hurries up to her, pushing through the crowd, Tucker fighting to catch up. “Hey,” says Wash breathlessly as he reaches her side. “Did you get in?”

Carolina holds her letter up for Wash and Tucker to read, her green eyes burning. “London!” says Tucker. “Hey, that’s great – that’s what you wanted, right?”

But she looks to Wash for a response. “Buenos Aires,” he says, waving his letter with a wry smile. “Hey, it’s only halfway across the world away.”

Startled, Carolina laughs. “Only halfway,” she says, a little shaky. “Yeah, Tucker. It’s what I applied for.”

“Well, congrats.” He lightly thumps her on the shoulder. “You’re gonna kill it, I know you are.”

“Thanks.” She still only has eyes on Wash, who’s gazing right back at her like he’s just had a revelation, and oh, _shit._ Tucker sees what’s going on here. He steps back a little, biting his lip to keep from ruining the moment, possibly by humming “Kiss the Girl.”

Disappointingly, though, Wash breaks into a shamefaced laugh and turns away, and Carolina flips her bangs out of her face with a quick exhale. “All right,” says Wash. “I guess that’s that.”


	9. just a couple'a dudes bein' guys

Tucker’s walking back up to the dorms, the night air cool and misty, little droplets of fog causing orange halos around the street lamps on the main dorm road. As he passes by Carolina’s dorm, he sees someone sitting on the front steps, looking down at their phone, and as he gets closer he recognizes who it is. “Carolina!” he calls, waving.

She looks up. “Hey, Tucker.”

Frowning, Tucker pauses; her voice sounds strained. Tucker walks up the path to her, and she smiles up at him as he approaches, though it’s definitely a little forced, the glow of her phone lighting her face from below. “What’s up?” says Tucker.

“Not much.” She shrugs as Tucker sits down next to her, swinging his backpack down to the ground. “Coming back from class?”

“Yeah.” He studies her face as best as he can in the glow of her phone and the lights along the path. Something in the set of her jaw, the fierce tilt of her eyebrows, doesn’t seem quite right. “You okay?”

Sighing, Carolina pushes her hair off her face. “Yeah,” she says. “I just called my dad and told him I’m going to London.”

Oh, damn. Tucker folds his arms over his knees; crickets chirp from the nearby bushes. “Was he mad?”

“No! No, he…” and Carolina laughs unsteadily. “I don’t think he even cared.”

Tucker thinks about his call with Mama yesterday, and how she yelled in excitement and made him promise to send her photos every day from all his adventures and how proud she was that her baby was going off to explore Argentina, and sympathy twists his heart. “Damn,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Carolina shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“No, no, it’s not, that’s bullshit, he _should_ care –” Indignation wells up in Tucker on Carolina’s behalf. “What’s wrong with him?”

Carolina’s shoulders set high and uncomfortable, her thumbs tapping on her phone restlessly. “Nothing’s _wrong,_ ” she says, voice hard, gaze fixed on the middle distance. “It’s just. It’s complicated. I mean, ever since Mom died…” Her eyes gleam as she glances at him, waiting for a reaction.

“My dad died when I was thirteen,” says Tucker quietly. “Right in front of me and my mom. Heart attack out of nowhere.” He can still remember sitting in his kitchen, mind numb, shivering under fluorescent lights as a paramedic says words to him that he doesn’t understand. “It fucked me up, you know? I started acting out, getting in fights, refused to do school work… started hanging out with the wrong people. My mom kept saying, ‘Would your daddy be proud of you if he could see you now?’ and I’d always tell her back that it didn’t matter, ‘cause he was gone…” Tucker clears the lump out of his throat, looking down at his sneakers. “And then one day I said that and Mama just kind of snapped, she said, ‘Well, I ain’t proud of you, either,’ and it just… I dunno. The expression on her face. Like she didn’t even recognize me.”

Carolina watches him steadily. “How old were you?”

“Almost sixteen.” Tucker clears his throat aggressively again, rubs a hand over his face. “I just knew that I never wanted to see her look at me like that again. I tried. I cleaned up my act. It wasn’t, you know, _perfect,_ but I tried. Did good enough to get in here, at least.”

“And on scholarship,” says Carolina, with a bit of a smile. “That’s no small feat.”

“Yeah,” admits Tucker. “Yeah, I turned it around.”

“Mom died when I was little.” Carolina turns her phone over in her hands, staring off at the dark mountains in the distance. “Really little. I barely remember her. So I don’t know what it was really like before, but… it’s always been about Allison – Tex – since then. For Dad.”

Quietly, Tucker says, “I’m sorry.” He thinks about putting a hand on her arm, but Carolina’s rigid posture says that would be a bad idea.

“He hasn’t been bad to me and Lenny,” continues Carolina, and it sounds like she’s convincing herself. “It’s just not the same.”

Tucker frowns. “Lenny?”

“Yeah. My older brother.” Carolina rolls her eyes. “He’s in the Army right now. He and Tex are twins.”

“Oh,” says Tucker, picturing a male Tex: tall, blond, and buff, with a deadly grin. “Um. Cool.”

Snorting, Carolina says, “He’s not, he’s kind of a jerk,” but there’s dry affection in her voice. “Anyway, he might visit in January, so you can meet him then.”

“I look forward to it,” quips Tucker, and Carolina laughs.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go study for my o-chem test,” she says, standing and brushing off her jeans. Tucker gets to his feet too. “Thanks for listening to me rant.”

“No problem.” Now that they’re standing Carolina’s a good head shorter than him, and this time he does put a hand on her arm. “Hey, uh, Carolina, if you need someone to talk to just… let me know…” His voice trails off lamely.

“Thank you, Tucker,” she says, sincere. “Have a good evening.”

“You too.”

\--

York turns the pages of the folder in his hands, looking it over one last time. A simple plastic cover, glossy printed mock ads, just over five thousand words of analysis and advertising theory. Everything he and Tucker have been working on together for the past semester, finally put together.

“Is that it?” says Tucker, peering over his shoulder. They’re in the hallway, in front of the ADV 101 class.

“Yeah.” York carefully closes it, holding it over to Tucker for his inspection. “Wanna see?”

Tucker hesitates for a second, and then he smiles. He’s wearing glasses today, dark-rimmed hipster-looking ones, which York shouldn’t be into but he kind of is. “Nah, man, I already know what’s in there.”

Holding the report, York grins back, weirdly proud of this stupid project. “We actually did a pretty decent job on this, huh?”

With a snort, Tucker says, “Thanks to _me._ ”

“Hey, I helped!”

“A little.” But Tucker’s still smiling as he opens the classroom door and walks inside.

In the end, it’s a little anticlimactic. York walks up to the table at the front of the class and places their report on a pile with the other student projects, and that’s it.

\--

Tucker is suffering through his last sociology class of the semester when his phone buzzes with a text. Pulling it open, Tucker reads a message from York:

_Hey man you wanna hookup?_

Raising his eyebrows, Tucker thinks, hell yeah. It’s been a couple weeks since the last time he and York banged, and he’s been getting antsy lately.

_When? Tonight?_

_No, two Fridays from now, lemme put it in my calendar_

_Yeah tonight_

_Fuck you_ (Reversed Hand With Middle Finger Extended ≊ Middle Finger)

_Ask nicer and maybe I’ll let you ;)_

Tucker represses a snort.

_Yeah like you won’t be begging for my cock before the night is over anyway_

_You wish you could get me to beg_

\--

Tucker grinds his hips up into York, grabbing at his ass, the weight of York pushing him down into the bed. Panting, York kisses Tucker, one hand tangled tight in his dreads. In the yellow lamplight York gleams golden, his skin warm on Tucker’s.  

Pushing York’s boxers down, Tucker digs his fingers into firm muscle, and York gasps into Tucker’s mouth. “Yeah, baby,” says Tucker, as York mouths down along his neck. “Oh yeah, right there, that’s it…” North’s gone for the weekend, so Tucker can be as loud as he wants –

York shivers, his hard-on pressing into Tucker’s thigh, his lips hot on Tucker’s neck. Pulling him in closer, Tucker claims him for another kiss. But after a few moments York drags his mouth back down to Tucker’s neck, except he keeps going, along Tucker’s throat, collarbone, chest. His lips close around Tucker’s nipple, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin, and Tucker hisses, back arching.

Hands raking down Tucker’s side, York moves to the other nipple, his breath burning on Tucker’s skin. Tucker groans, his head pressing back into the pillows, legs curling as a jolt of pleasure hits him like lightning. “Ohhh, God, yeah…”

As York works at Tucker’s nipple with lips and tongue it winds Tucker up tighter and tighter, like a coiling spring, until Tucker is panting and shaking, his dick throbbing. He swears he could come just like this when York pulls away, replaced by a rush of cool air, and Tucker gasps. But before he has a chance to reorient York kisses down Tucker’s stomach, down to his groin, his long fingers sliding down Tucker’s hips to part his thighs.

Tucker props himself up on his elbows, watching as York’s bronze head bows over his cock. His lips brush over the head and Tucker lets out a heavy breath, his stomach clenching. York drags his thumbs along the soft crease in between Tucker’s thighs and groin, and a shiver goes up Tucker’s spine. “God, yeah,” he breathes, as York sucks his dick into his mouth. “Yeah, just – just like that –” he’s babbling, words spilling out of him without thought – “damn, baby, feels so good, you’re so good at this, you’re so good –”

York _whines_ and swallows Tucker down the entire way.

Gasping, Tucker shudders, because _wow,_ York’s never done that before. “You like that?” he manages, because words are becoming increasingly difficult. “You like when I call you good?” York whines again, his fingers digging into Tucker’s thighs, and nods as best he can with Tucker’s dick down his throat.

“Yeah, that’s because you are.” Tucker, breathless, his abs rising and falling sharply, grabs two fistfuls of the blanket as York slides along his cock, warm and wet. “God, you’re fucking – ahh – oh, _fuck_ , York – mnnh – hah – you’re amazing, you’re so – _ahh_ – good, gonna blow my mind, oh fuck, _oh fuck,_ oh fuck fuck fuckfuck _fuahhhh –_ ”

Crying out, head thrown back, Tucker jerks and shakes with the force of his orgasm, stars exploding behind his eyelids. And York rides it out with him, right there, heat covering not only Tucker’s dick but all of him, flowing over his skin, pooling in his throat and his belly and his cock.

Eventually, Tucker remembers how to breathe, staring up at the ceiling of York’s bedroom. “Holy shit, dude,” he pants, damp with sweat, York slowly pulling off his cock, letting his tongue swipe along Tucker’s length. “That was…”

He meets York’s eyes, wide and gray and strangely desperate, and Tucker does what instinct tells him and leans forward to pull York into a kiss.

York practically attacks Tucker, pushing him back down into the blankets, lips mashing against him, hands all over him, hips grinding up against his. Grabbing the back of York’s neck to hold him steady, Tucker kisses York, still hazy from the post-orgasm high. But he’s lucid enough to reach down and wrap a hand around York’s rigid dick, drawing another whine out of York. “Please,” gasps York, hips pumping up into Tucker’s hand. “Say it again –”

“Say what?” Tucker strokes along his length, slick with precome, and briefly closes his teeth on York’s earlobe. “Yeah, you’re good,” he breathes in York’s ear, and York keens and shudders. “You’re fucking good, dude, you’re awesome, you make me come like no one else –”

York’s breath comes in quick, short bursts, punctuated by moans, and he clutches at Tucker, shaking, burning hot to the touch.

“Goddamn, York, you’re fucking hot and you touch me so good, make me feel so good, baby, do it just right –”

With a long, drawn-out cry, York comes into Tucker’s hand, spurting hot onto Tucker’s hand, his face pressed into Tucker’s neck. Tucker holds him there and bites at his ear. Gradually, they relax into each other, breathing loud and raspy in the quiet room.

Sticky with sweat, Tucker starts to peel himself away, but York makes an indistinct noise of protest and wraps himself tighter around Tucker, face completely hidden in Tucker’s shoulder at this point. “Figures you’re a cuddler,” mutters Tucker, but if he’s honest he’s not complaining. He lets his head fall onto the pillow and shifts so he’s not lying on his arm, feeling simultaneously sexed-out and relaxed and a little out-of-place. Hooking up with a guy (repeatedly) is one thing, but cuddling afterwards is… well. It’s different.

A bead of liquid trickles down Tucker’s neck. At first he thinks it’s sweat, but then York twists out of his arms to face the other wall, wiping at his eyes, and… “Are you _crying?_ ” asks Tucker.

“No,” says York hoarsely, rolling to sit up. His back and shoulders are bowed in front of Tucker, smooth ochre skin stretched over rippling muscles. He wipes at his eyes again.

Fuck. Tucker thought he’d been doing good, but maybe not…? Awkward, halting, he asks, “Was it that bad?”

“What? No!” York looks over his shoulder at Tucker, and his eyes are definitely wet, but his expression is strangely fierce. “That was fucking _good,_ Tucker.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tucker sits up, wiping his sticky hand off on his side. He’ll shower in a bit. “Just. You’re kind of. You know.”

York laughs, shamefaced. “It just kind of happened. Dude, trust me. That was good.” And he leans in and kisses Tucker, warm and slightly salty.

A grin spreads across Tucker’s face, part relief and part pride. “Hell yeah,” he says, kissing York back. “It sure was.”


	10. you're no good, duck!

“Tex!” yells Tucker gleefully from across the cafeteria, holding his carton of chicken strips and fries. “Yo! Tex!”

She turns around in her seat at the sound and waves at him with a big grin. “Hey, Tucker!” Carolina, sitting opposite to her, smiles and waves too, and there’s a guy Tucker doesn’t recognize sitting next to Tex.

Tucker hurries over, weaving past half-empty tables, the caf not nearly as busy with most students still returning from break, as Tex gets up from her seat. They meet with a back-thumping hug (Tucker still hanging onto his food). “Hey, man!” says Tex. “How was your break?”

“Cold,” says Tucker longingly, with a sideways glance at the bright sunshine and blue sky outside. “We had actual snow, instead of whatever this Malibu bullshit is.”

Laughing, Tex says, “You had a good Christmas? You do Christmas, right?”

“Yeah, we do, and yeah, I did,” says Tucker. Carolina stands too and he turns to give her a hug. “Hey, Carolina, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good.” She smiles up at him and nods at the strange guy. “This is my brother, Leonard Jr.”

“Or Private Church,” says Tex, rolling her eyes as she sits back down.

The guy rolls his eyes right back. At first glance Leonard doesn’t look much like Tex, with a narrow face and dark hair, but they’ve got the same long nose and angled jaw, and his eyes are the same bright green as Carolina’s. “Leonard’s fine,” he says, and he holds out a hand for Tucker to shake.

Tucker takes his hand, Leonard’s long fingers wrapping around his in a firm grasp, and introduces himself, “Tucker.” As everyone goes back to their food, he continues, “Carolina says you’re in the Army?” If Tucker’s going to be honest, Leonard doesn’t look like Army material, not with how pale and skinny he is and with those glasses, dressed in jeans and a Bungie t-shirt.

“Yeah,” snorts Leonard. “It’s all a load of bullshit, honestly.”

Startled but pleased, Tucker laughs. “Why’d you join, then?”

“ ‘Cause I knew it would piss off my old man.”

Glancing at Carolina, Tucker sees her poking at her food with a slight frown, but Tex is grinning at her twin brother with definite pride. “Yeah, I, uh, heard a bit about him from Carolina, but…”

“It’s fucking stupid,” says Leonard, tearing off a piece of his quesadilla. “I look just like him, so everyone expects me to act like him too.”

Tex scoffs. “God, yeah. You don’t know how many family friends keep telling me, ‘Oh, you look so much like your mother…’” Her accent takes a hard turn for the South, all high-pitched and sing-song.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” says Carolina.

“Says you.”

\--

Spinning the steering wheel around, York eases Delta into a curbside parking spot, wedging his car in between a Jeep and somebody’s _minivan._ Who brings a minivan to campus, honestly?

North might, concedes York. If he had to drive a lot of people. But North’s twenty-one going on fifty-one, so that doesn’t count.

Parked, York gets out of the car, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath of ocean-tinted air as he surveys the main campus before him. It’s good to be back, he thinks, heading down the stairs towards the caf. And coming off the heels of this year’s PFL retreat (thirty guys all renting a giant house up in Big Bear with snowboarding and video games and booze, easily the best three days of the year so far), he’s feeling optimistic about the next semester.

His phone buzzes in his pocket – message from Tex.

 _ur guys back on campus_ (Face With Stuck-Out Tongue And Winking Eye ) (White Right Pointing Backhand Index ≊ Backhand Index Pointing Right) (Ok Hand Sign ≊ Ok Hand)

York stops in his tracks, something vaguely like panic blooming in his gut.

_Tucker’s not my guy_

_looool did i even say it was tucker???_ (Face With Tears Of Joy ) (Face With Tears Of Joy ) (Face With Tears Of Joy )

All right, so Tex is in a mood. Sighing, York puts his phone back in his pocket and keeps walking when it buzzes again.

_we’re in the caf right now if u wanna hang out_

Freezing halfway across the plaza, the central fountain spattering away merrily, York frantically tries to think of a response. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Tucker, far from it (okay, he really wants to see Tucker). But the last time they hooked up he had this stupid reaction because his fucking praise kink decided to kick in, and Tucker was pretty clearly uncomfortable, and then he left that night and they haven’t seen each other since and what if Tucker doesn’t want to hook up with him anymore? What if Tucker thinks he’s a weird loser who cries after sex? What if Tucker _laughs_ at him?

That’s not going to happen, and you know it, he tells himself. For fuck’s sake.

Resolutely, he starts towards the caf again. Besides, it sounds like they’re in a group, and if nothing else Tex will be there, so Tucker doesn’t even have to talk to him if he doesn’t want to. Just some friends hanging out, no reason to make it weird –

The caf doors open, and out steps Tucker, and only Tucker.

He looks _good,_ in a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans and spotless black and white sneakers, long dreadlocks pulled back on top but hanging loose around his shoulders. York has a fraction of a second to think before Tucker spots him – and smiles.

“Oh, hey, dude,” says Tucker. “How was break?”

York grins back, easy, warm. “Not bad, not bad, how was yours?” He fistbumps Tucker and then pulls him into a one-armed hug, slapping him on the back.

“Dope, we had so much snow.” Stepping back, Tucker looks York over with blatant interest, and a thread of heat curls inside York. “Hey, you doing anything later?”

“Why?” says York. “You miss me already?” and he winks at Tucker.

“You kidding? I had a month of peace and quiet.” Tucker smirks, walking past York, who turns to watch him go. Those jeans are a _great_ fit. But when he’s a few feet away, Tucker stops and spins around. “Yeah, I’m free later.”

A slow smile spreads across York’s face, like warm caramel syrup. “Cool.”

\--

Wash comes back late Sunday night, while Tucker’s sprawled on his bed, scrolling through Twitter. “Hey, man, welcome back,” says Tucker, barely looking up, and then notices a very distinct difference. “Dude… what happened to your hair?”

Grimacing, Wash rubs a hand over his head, his hair buzzed down to a black fuzz. “So, you know how I was at that PFL retreat for a few days?”

Tucker stares up at him. “Yeah?”

“Some asshole thought it’d be a fun idea to prank me by putting bleach in my shampoo.” Setting his duffle bag and backpack down with a thump, Wash collapses onto his bed with a sigh. “It _fried_ my hair. Did you know that bleach for cleaning and bleach for hair coloring are two different products?”

Eyes widening in horror, Tucker says, “Oh, _no._ ”

“Yeah,” says Wash grimly. “I’m lucky it didn’t burn my scalp. Anyway, I figured it was easier to just shave it all off than try and save it, so.” He shrugs. “It’s hair, it grows back.”

Tossing aside his phone, Tucker assesses him. “You know, it’s not that bad a look.”

Wash eyes him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yeah, you’ve kind of got this badass special agent vibe going on.” Tucker pauses, wondering if York was involved – he has a mischievous streak, but this seems a little too mean-spirited. “No idea who did it?”

Shaking his head, Wash leans down to pull his laptop out of his bag. “No, but North flipped his lid when he found out, so I imagine they’ll get to the bottom of it soon.”

“Yeah… Hey, has Carolina seen you yet?”

For a brief second, sheer horror crosses Wash’s face. “No…”

“Dude, I’ll bet you ten bucks she likes it,” laughs Tucker. “Seriously, it kind of works.”

“I don’t gamble,” grumbles Wash, opening up his laptop, but he looks mollified. “Thanks.”

\--

Tucker is feeling good. His first day of classes went well (he and Wash have Spanish together, four mornings a week, and Wash is already pissed at him for spending the first class googling Spanish curse words instead of listening to Profesora Almorada), they were handing out free In-n-Out burgers on campus for some event or another, and all of his homework so far is BS like “read and sign the syllabus” so he doesn’t have to do any of it tonight. As he walks into his dorm suite, he’s ready to flop down on his bed and read mindless Reddit threads for an hour when he realizes there’s a sock on his and Wash’s door.

It takes Tucker a second to process the universal symbol of “Do not disturb, banging is going on.” Biting his knuckle to keep from whooping, he does a gleeful and entirely silent dance in the common room, prancing around to an internal chant of _Wash got laid, Wash got laid, Wash got laid!_

Caboose opens the suite door, backpack slung over his shoulder, and Tucker leaps forward to push him back out into the hall. “Tucker!” protests Caboose, as Tucker shuts the door behind them. “What are you doing?”

“Wash is busy,” says Tucker quickly, trying to steer Caboose back down the hall. “Super busy, we don’t want to disturb him…”

But trying to move Caboose is like trying to forcibly steer a draft horse. “Busy doing what?” says Caboose, suspicious.

Carolina, bow-chicka-wow-wow, thinks Tucker. “Homework. C’mon, let’s go get dinner or something –”

“You never ask to get dinner when it’s just us.”

Tucker stares up at Caboose in a semi-panic because if _he_ , Lavernius Tucker, ruins Wash and Carolina’s first hookup because he couldn’t wrangle Caboose, he is never forgiving himself, ever. “New year, new me,” he says lamely.

Rolling his eyes, Caboose says, “You are not a very good liar,” and pushes Tucker aside to open the door. Tucker can’t shout at him to stop as Caboose strides purposefully into the suite –

“Oh,” whispers Caboose, stopping. “Wash has a sock on his door. Why didn’t you say so?”

From the doorway, Tucker gapes at him. “You know what that means?” he hisses.

Slowly and carefully, Caboose sets his backpack down on the sofa. “ _Everyone_ knows what that means,” he says.

Knowing Caboose, he might think it’s code for “taking a nap with kittens” or something. “And what’s that…?” whispers Tucker.

“Having sex,” says Caboose serenely, walking back out of the room. “I’m surprised you had to ask, Tucker.” And he closes the suite door, leaving Tucker sputtering in the hallway. “We should go eat dinner.”

A couple hours later, when he’s walking back up from the caf, Tucker gets a single text from Wash.

_She likes the hair._

And Tucker crows triumphantly up at the black and starry sky.

\--

“Hey, man,” says Tucker, reaching out to shake Leonard’s hand. “Good to meet you. If you’re ever in Detroit, let me know.”

Leonard laughs shortly, but returns Tucker’s grip; behind him, Tex leans against her car, ready to take Leonard back to the airport. “Yeah, all right.”

Turning to Carolina, he ruffles her hair, and she grimaces and dodges away from his hand. “I’ll see you around, C.”

She snorts. “It’s not goodbye, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” With a brief wave to her and Tucker, Leonard gets into the car, Tex sliding in behind the wheel. She pulls out of the parking lot with a screech of tires on pavement, zooming away onto the main road.

Sighing, Carolina folds her arms across her chest, watching them go. “What’s all that about?” asks Tucker. “‘It’s not goodbye?’”

“It’s something we got from Mom,” says Carolina quietly. “ ‘If you don’t say goodbye, then you’re not really gone.’”

Frowning, Tucker considers the logic behind that. “Look, no offense to your mom, but…”

“Don’t be a jerk about it, Tucker,” snaps Carolina, and turns and walks away, back towards the dorms.

“Woah – hey, Carolina!” Despite her short legs she’s already powerwalked a good distance away, and it takes Tucker a couple seconds to catch up to her. “Carolina, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.”

She doesn’t sound like it is, and she doesn’t look like it either, staring straight ahead of her with a stony gaze. “Hey, I’m sorry,” says Tucker again, quieter, matching her pace. “Really.”

Carolina sighs, her posture softening. “It’s all right,” she says. “I’m just a little touchy right now. It’s tough, with Leonard getting deployed.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Especially because that was how Mom died. She was in the Army, too.”

Tucker nearly trips because _whoa,_ that is not the kind of bombshell you expect to just be dropped into conversation. “I’m sorry.” He thinks back to when he met Leonard. “No wonder him enlisting annoyed your dad.”

“Annoyed? He was _livid._ ” They continue walking down the road, going around a curve, and the horizon opens up before them, the blue ocean beyond the dorms lining the street. “I thought he was going to disown Lenny.”

“Jesus,” mutters Tucker.

“Anyway.” With a huff Carolina straightens her shoulders and smiles at Tucker, determinedly bright. “He’s going to be fine, he’s too smart to get himself hit.”

That’s not how it works, Tucker wants to say, but for once he knows better than to open his mouth. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”


	11. you have to say that you're fine but you're not

York wakes up in his dark bedroom to somebody opening the door. “Whozzair?” he mumbles, groggy. “North?”

“It’s me,” says Tex thickly.

Pushing himself up on an elbow, York rubs at his face as Tex crosses the room over to him and climbs onto his bed. “Hey,” whispers York, brushing a hand over her arm as she works her way under the covers. “What’s wrong?”

Silently, Tex curls up into his bare chest and shakes.

York’s heart sinks. “Your dad?”

She nods.

“Fuck.” Sighing, York lies back down and wraps an arm around Tex, tucking her closer into him. Resting his head on his other arm, he rubs his hand over her shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says quietly, reaching up to gently massage the back of her neck. “You’re safe. I got you.”

Tex’s breath catches.

York keeps rubbing her back, occasionally stroking her hair, and says quiet reassuring things until Tex stops trembling so badly. Barely any light filters through his blinds, just enough for him to see the outline of Tex in his arms. “You gotta tell somebody,” he says at last, working out a tangle in her ponytail.

 “And tell them what? ‘My dad calls me and says mean things to me sometimes and I get upset?’” says Tex, shaky and bitter. “They didn’t do jackshit when we were kids and they won’t now.”

York strokes her hair. Very quietly, he says, “It’s fucking you up.”

 She huddles in closer to him, her hands folded up to her chest. “Just three and a half more years,” she whispers. “Until Carolina has her degree and a job. Then we can all get out together, cut him off completely.”

Settling his head on the pillow, York sighs. “What if she doesn’t want to?”

For a long moment, Tex says nothing, lying very still. “Allison,” says York, and Tex shivers. “You have to tell her. She has to know.”

“No –”

“You can’t protect her by hiding the truth.”

Tex exhales in a rush, her breath briefly warm on York’s skin. “I know,” she says faintly. York drops his head to hers, kisses her hair.

“Promise me you’ll tell her,” he says. “Soon.”

“Okay.”

They lie together in the dark, breathing going slow and steady. York drapes his arm over Tex’s waist, his eyes drifting shut…

“I probably should have called you before I came over, huh,” mutters Tex. “That would’ve been awkward, if I showed up and Tucker was here…”

York huffs a laugh. “Tucker doesn’t sleep over.”

“Why not?” says Tex, pulling back to look up at York.

Shrugging, York says, “I dunno, it’s just not something we do. We’re not like that.”

“Which is what?”

York shifts uncomfortably. “Just… friends. Friends with benefits.”

“We’re friends, and I sleep over,” Tex points out.

“Yeah, but you’re different –”

“How so –”

“Tex, I have class tomorrow, I need to sleep,” groans York. Technically class doesn’t start until one, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“All right,” huffs Tex, uncurling into a more comfortable position. “But hey. If I’m talking to Carolina, you need to talk to Tucker and figure your shit out.”

“It is figured out,” insists York, fighting to stay awake.

“Okay,” mumbles Tex. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

\--

Sighing lazily, Tucker stretches out on York’s bed, sweat cooling on his skin. From the bathroom, water runs, York having ducked out for a quick wash. I should probably clean off too, Tucker thinks, but he wants to lie here and enjoy the satisfaction of a good fuck for a few moments longer.

Reaching over to the nightstand, Tucker grabs his phone to check the time. But as he puts it back, he notices a thick, battered, paperback book on the nightstand, multiple post-it notes sticking out of the pages. Curious, Tucker picks it up. _Critique of Pure Reason_ by Immanuel Kant. Must be for his philosophy class, then.

But as Tucker idly flips through the pages, he starts to think it’s more than just a textbook. It’s heavily annotated and highlighted, nearly every page marked in some way, notes scribbled in the margins or stickied on, in both pencil and blue and black ink. This is a book that’s been read over, and over, and over…

The door opens and York walks in, wearing only his dark green boxers, ruffling a hand through his damp hair. “Hey,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips as he looks over Tucker lounging naked on his bed.

“Dude,” says Tucker, waving _Critique_ at him. “You didn’t tell me you were smart.”

York raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Like, look at this.” Sitting up, Tucker flips through _Critique,_ careful of the tattered pages. “How many times have you read this?”

“I dunno, five, six?” York sits down on the foot of the bed. “Did you think I was joking about the philosophy degree?”

Turning the book over in his hands, Tucker says, “Nah, man. I just thought, you know, with all the bro tanks and the frat stuff and the working out and the parties –”

“You thought what?” says York, voice flat.

Tucker shrugs, aware he’s approaching dangerous territory. “That you weren’t really serious about it.”

“Uh-huh.” York sits with his hands in his lap, bouncing one leg, eyeing Tucker skeptically.

“Look,” protests Tucker, crossing his legs, feeling increasingly more judged, “you didn’t give a fuck about the advertising project, and you’ve got the whole frat bro thing going on –”

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” says York irritably, and gets to his feet. Grabbing _Critique_ out of Tucker’s hands, he sets it down carefully on the nightstand and reaches for his jeans. “Just because I wear bro tanks doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

“I’m not – I’m not saying that.” Frustrated, Tucker rubs the back of his neck, watching York’s hard-as-bronze profile. “I’m saying, you’re smart, but you don’t – you don’t act like…”

“I don’t flaunt it, you mean.”

There’s a glimmer of understanding and humor in York’s voice, and Tucker’s shoulders slump in relief. “Yeah, man.”

Shrugging, York fingers a corner of _Critique,_ turning over one dog-eared page. “People expect a lot more out of you if you’re smart,” he says quietly. “I figure it’s better to keep expectations low, then they won’t be disappointed.”

Sunlight sifting through the window catches on the strands of York’s hair, highlights his eyelashes and the curve of his lip, gleams on the curves of his shoulders and arms. He looks down at the book with a contemplative, almost wistful expression. The tilt of his head, the long, graceful line of his arm down to his fingers, and the soft browns and golds of his bodies look almost like a Renaissance painting. Tucker catches his breath, his heart throbbing quietly with something strange and tender.

“Yeah,” says Tucker, hoarse, and hurriedly clears his throat. York looks up with eyes the color of slate, fixed on Tucker, searching. “I get that.”

\--

While Kai’s initial plan of going to twenty-one bars to celebrate Tex’s twenty-first birthday was deemed too ambitious even for Tex, she’s not letting that bring her enthusiasm down. “Yeah!” Kai whoops, dragging a laughing Tex by the hand down Third Street in Santa Monica. “Come on, we gotta get margs first!”

Grinning, Tucker chases after them, Wash, Carolina, York, and Caboose all hurrying to keep up. Third Street is a promenade, closed off to traffic so pedestrians can walk freely, islands of flowers and topiary running down the middle of the pavement. Strings of lights hang from tree branches and building rooftops, music from street performers rises above the chatter (here a plaintive guitar chorus, there a bouncy saxophone solo), and Tucker smells butter and cinnamon-sugar from a food cart down the way.

At Kai’s insistence their first stop is margaritas and nachos at a restaurant with a fake thatch awning and multicolored ceiling lights, where apparently she “knows a guy,” because none of them get carded. “Happy birthday!” Tucker choruses with the others, raising his margarita to Tex, and she laughs, eyes gleaming, skin tinted green and blue and purple, wearing steel jewelry and a short black dress.

“Thanks, guys,” she says, and takes a big swig of her margarita, which is the color of the Caribbean ocean.

Leaning on the table, his shoulder brushing Tucker’s, York grins at her. “Congrats on being able to drink legally.”

Tex winks, chomping down on a loaded nacho chip. “Am I a cool kid now?”

“The coolest,” says York, and Tucker nods fervently.

It turns out there are quite a few bars where Kai “knows a guy.” A couple hours later and they’re trouping down the street towards a club, laughing, bumping into each other. York drapes an arm over Tucker’s shoulders, leaning into him. “Hey, man,” says Tucker, grinning, warm all over. It’s a beautiful night and the world is good.

York laughs and kind of pushes his face into Tucker’s hair. “How _you_ doin’?” he says, in a ridiculous New York accent.

“Dude, is that a Joey impersonation?”

“Maybe,” giggles York, pulling Tucker up against his side.

Tucker’s considering retaliating with a rib-tickle when Caboose, beaming and red-faced, barrels up against York on the other side. “Hello, friends!” he shouts.

“Hi!” York ruffles Caboose’s hair, pats him on the back a few times. “You’re a pretty good guy, you know that?”

“I am the best!” pronounces Caboose.

Laughing, Tucker loops an arm around York’s waist, vaguely aware that they’re in public and that’s supposed to be weird, but he doesn’t really care. In front of him Kai’s got a hand in Tex’s back pocket, chattering up at Tex, who throws her head back and cackles. When Tucker looks behind him he sees Wash and Carolina walking hand-in-hand; he grins at them and they smile back, Wash flashing a thumbs-up.

Later they end up in a club, some kind of bougie hipster place with dark teak everywhere and bare incandescent lightbulbs and rough wood tables, but the music’s loud and got a killer beat and that’s all Tucker really needs, anyway. Kai rocks the dance floor, dark curls flying, her big hips swinging, and Tucker rocks it right up there with her. His head buzzes, sweat dripping down his neck as he sways along with the music, Kai grinding up against him.

The song changes to Ke$ha remix and Kai screams in delight, peeling away from Tucker to grab Tex off the sidelines. Laughing, Tex lets Kai pull her onto the dance floor and grabs Kai around the waist, the two of them rocking together to the rhythm, faces close, hips touching. Tucker gets a couple seconds to gaze appreciatively before someone presses up against him from behind, someone taller and warmer than him. “Hey,” says York, in Tucker’s ear.

“Hey,” says Tucker back, throaty, pulse pounding, surrounded by dancing bodies and the loud semi-dark. York’s hands descend on his hips, pulling Tucker up close as he says something that Tucker can’t make out over the music. “What?” Tucker shouts.

York’s lips tickle Tucker’s ear, his breath alcohol-scented. “I said, I like how you move.”

“Yeah?” Tucker smiles, grinding his hips back into York, being as sexy as he can. “Like this?” He’s in public, he’s dancing with a guy in public and you know what, he doesn’t care what people think.

It’s like one a.m. when York and Tucker and Tex and Kai pile into the back of an Uber, Wash, Carolina, and Caboose taking another. Tucker’s wedged up in between York and Tex, arguing passionately with Tex over cheeseburgers. “You haven’t even _had_ Five Guys, how do you know they aren’t as good –”

“I don’t _need_ to try them to know Whataburger’s _better_ ,” Tex retorts, an arm draped over Kai’s shoulders. “Best goddamn burgers in the entire United States –”

“What? Noooooo,” protests Kai. “Do they have teriyaki burgers?”

“No, but –”

“Then they’re not the best!”

“Listen –”

York pushes his face into Tucker’s neck, a hand sliding over his thigh. Tucker wraps his fingers around York’s wrist, leaning around Tex towards Kai to say, “Okay, if you want teriyaki burgers, check out The Habit –”

“I _know_ about The Habit, duh.” Kai rolls her eyes. “But they’re not _authentic –_ ”

York’s hand moves further up Tucker’s thigh, his lips on where Tucker’s neck meets his shoulders. “Dude,” mutters Tucker, twisting around to look at him, York wedged up behind him with his leg pressed against Tucker’s.

“Mm.” Propping his chin on Tucker’s shoulder, his hair tousled, York wraps an arm around Tucker’s waist.

“You guys are so _cute!_ ” squeals Kai, leaning over Tex to smush Tucker’s cheeks. Tucker shakes his head free, but York kisses the back of his neck and it’s _incredibly_ distracting.

Tex makes a face. “No, they’re not,” she says, withering Tucker’s brief hopes for a foursome. “You’re being gross, York, stop it.”

His grip on Tucker tightening, York flips her off. Tucker laughs, leaning back into him; their driver isn’t saying anything, which means he’s awesome, and Tucker resolves to tip him a lot.

It turns out that Tex lives in the same neighborhood that York does, her apartment only the next street over. As they stumble out of the car, York keeps his arm around Tucker, pulling him not towards Tex’s building but down the street. “Hey, Tex is that way,” Tucker points out.

“C’mon,” breathes York, kissing Tucker hot and hazy. “Please...”

“Please what?” Tucker’s not sure what’s happening but he’s okay with it, leaning up into York, their lips brushing, sliding his hands into York’s back pockets.

York steps backwards, tugging on Tucker’s waist. “Come with me.”

Light mist hangs in the air, the night silent and dark around them like only a residential neighborhood at one a.m. can be. Tucker kisses York, drunk on tequila and York’s heat, breathing heavy, tasting sweat and liquor on his lips. He moves with York, one step at a time, wanting curling up inside him like smoke from a campfire. It might take five minutes  to get York’s apartment, it might take an hour, Tucker can’t tell. York cups Tucker’s face in his hands, kissing him hungrily, backing him up into the apartment door.

One hand braced on Tucker’s shoulder, York fumbles in his pocket for his keys. Tucker makes it as difficult as possible by kissing along York’s neck, reaching up to tug back on his hair. “Mmf,” says York, eyes fluttering shut. “Tucker…”

“Yeah, babe?”

With a click, the apartment door swings backwards and Tucker half-falls inside, dragging York with him. York wraps one arm under Tucker’s shoulders and another around the small of his back, practically dipping him with the force of his kiss. Staggering, Tucker grabs York tight and kisses him back open-mouthed, his pulse pounding in his ears.

They only bump into furniture a couple times between the door and York’s room; Tucker catches a chair corner in his thigh with a grunt but he’s too busy making out with York to care. “Want you,” pants York, digging his hands into Tucker’s ribs.

Tucker groans into York’s mouth, heat and pressure building inside him. Fumbling at York’s shirt, Tucker pushes him towards the bed, but York trips on something. “Shit,” he hisses, clutching at Tucker for balance.

 “Maybe – we should – turn the light on,” Tucker manages, in between kisses, York clumsily unbuttoning his shirt.

They fall onto the bed, Tucker straddling York’s hips. “Maybe,” acknowledges York, leaning over to turn on the lamp, and yellow light washes over them, revealing York’s tousled hair, wide pupils, and flushed cheeks. Finishing unbuttoning his shirt, Tucker takes it off slow, watching York’s gaze follow his movement. “You like that, huh?” says Tucker, smirking.

York nods, eyes flicking up to Tucker’s, his expression hungry.

A hand on the back of York’s neck, Tucker leans in to kiss him, and York responds with a sudden intake of breath, kissing Tucker sloppy and openmouthed. Briefly, York breaks away to wrestle off his own shirt before lunging back in for another kiss. Tucker tugs on York’s hair again and York moans, his head falling back heavy into Tucker’s hand. “Yeah, go on, baby,” says Tucker, fingers raking over York’s scalp. “Make some noise.”

Shivering, York drags his hands down Tucker’s chest, and Tucker twitches and gasps as his fingers catch on his nipples. Tucker keeps working his hand through York’s damp hair, pushing him in for kisses, pulling on his hair to bare his neck, until York exhales in breathy whines. “Just like that,” murmurs Tucker, and God, he’s so hard, he wants York to stop touching him never.

York’s hands roam over his chest, his back, his ass, burning hot. Panting, kissing York feverishly, Tucker unbuckles York’s jeans, sliding a hand over his growing bulge. York groans again, seizing Tucker’s hips.

There’s too many buttons, too many buckles, and it’s pissing Tucker off. Kicking off his shoes, he stands briefly to shuck off his pants and underwear, and then York grabs him around the waist and pulls him down to the bed. “Tucker,” gasps York, while Tucker presses his lips down York’s throat, yanking his jeans and boxers off. “I want – want to try –”

“Mm?”

“Turn around,” says York, rolling Tucker over, and before Tucker can really process York’s wrapped around him from behind, legs knocking into Tucker’s.

“Whoa, hey!” Tucker’s not _against_ the idea of being fucked, but you gotta give a guy a little warning –

York kisses the back of his neck. “Relax,” he says in Tucker’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine, before twisting away. Tucker stares at the ivory wall and the navy blue folds of York’s blanket, his skin tingling wherever York’s touched him. There’s the tiny pop of a bottle being opened, and then York presses back up behind Tucker, his hand sliding slick in between Tucker’s thighs.

“Oh,” breathes Tucker.

His lips traveling along Tucker’s neck, York lubes up the inside of Tucker’s thighs; his hand brushes under Tucker’s balls, making him twitch and catch his breath. Rolling his hips back into York, Tucker twists his head around to kiss York, hot lips brushing past his. York circles his fingers over Tucker’s inner thigh, up to his aching dick, and Tucker groans, reaching back to curl his fingers in York’s hair.

“Mmnh,” says York, pressing his face into Tucker’s neck, and he lifts Tucker’s leg so he can slide his cock in between Tucker’s thighs, warm and hard. Tucker rocks his hips back, stomach clenching, and York lets out a heavy, shuddering breath.

Grabbing York’s lubed hand, Tucker brings it down to his own cock, and when York wraps his hand around Tucker the blood practically rushes from his head. “Oh, God, yeah,” moans Tucker, raking his fingers through York’s hair, York panting sharp and harsh as he pumps his hips back and forth. “Yeah, touch me like that, baby, you feel so good, damn, York, you do me so good…”

York whines, his hand and hips moving faster, and Tucker arches his back, lamplight shining red through his closed eyelids. “Just like – that –” gasps Tucker, the side of his face pressed to York’s. “Ohh, yeah – hnn – ah – _God,_ York, keep going, you’re – ha _ahh,_ fuck, baby, you feel so good – oh God, oh fuck, hah, ah –”

Crying out, York buries his face in Tucker’s neck, his whole body jerking and shuddering as he comes, hot liquid trickling in between Tucker’s thighs. His hand on Tucker’s cock tightens and that tips Tucker over the edge, his muscles drawing together, his breath drawing short, and he comes into York’s hand with one last, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” on his lips.

Panting, sticky with sweat, Tucker opens his eyes. York wraps his arm around Tucker’s waist, pulling him in close. “Are you spooning me?” says Tucker muzzily. He can feel York’s heart pounding where his chest touches his back.

“Mm.”

As the last of the endorphins fade, Tucker relaxes, boneless, into the bed and York’s arms. I could fall asleep, he thinks, right here, at least for a little bit –

Someone’s phone buzzes sharply from the floor. Groaning, York rolls over, cool air washing over Tucker in his absence. “That’s mine,” mumbles York, reaching for his pants. Sitting up, Tucker rubs the back of his neck, appreciating the way York is all stretched out on the bed.

“Oh, hey,” says York, sounding more alert. “Tex says they’ve picked up a ton of Jack-in-the-Box over at her place. You want some?”

And just like that, Tucker’s starving, in sudden need of calories depleted by alcohol and sex. “Oh, _hell_ yeah.”

When they walk over to Tex’s apartment, everyone’s all there, sprawled over the couch and each other with a fast food feast spread out on the coffee table in front of them. “Oh my God, Tex, I love you,” says York, grabbing two soft tacos as soon as he comes through the door.

She grins from where she’s sandwiched in between Carolina and Kai, no longer in a dress but a tank top and sweat pants, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eye makeup smudged. “You boys have fun?”

“You bet we did,” says Tucker, grinning, settling himself cross-legged on the floor, and goes for a cheeseburger. “We had all sorts of –”

“I do not need to hear about your sex life, Tucker,” grumbles Wash, who’s lying with his head in Carolina’s lap, his legs hanging over the sofa arm.

Soon there’s nothing left but greasy paper wrappers and half-empty condiment packets. “Oh, man,” sighs Tucker, leaning back against the couch. Kai pats him on the head. “You guys…”

“Hey,” says Tex. “I’ve been twenty-one for a _whole day_ now.” She’s tired enough now that her Southern accent is starting to reemerge, as she leans back into the cushions with her feet propped up on the table. Kai is curled up under her one arm, Carolina resting her head on Tex’s other shoulder. Wash is either half-asleep or fully asleep, his eyes closed as Carolina runs her hands over his buzzed hair. On the other hand,  Caboose is fully knocked out, curled up in a nest of chair cushions, his mouth slack. York’s in the bathroom.

Kai tucks her feet up under herself, snuggling closer into Tex. “Was it a good birthday?”

“Yeah.” Tex beams down at Kai, runs a hand through her curly hair. “Yeah, it was real good,” and she gives Kai a kiss on the lips. They’re a nice couple, Tucker thinks contentedly. Opposites attract.

A sudden burst of music makes them all jump, _I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation_ blaring tinny from someone’s cell phone. Everyone’s heads turn to the counter, where the phone is plugged in and charging; Caboose stirs and mutters in his sleep. “That’s mine,” says Tex, her good mood entirely replaced by a strange wariness. “Someone’s calling me.”

“Tex,” says York, stepping into the room, drying his hands off. “Don’t answer it.”

She twists around to look at him, wide-eyed. “But –”

Stepping over the counter, York checks the phone, and then shakes his head at her. “Don’t,” he says quietly, letting it still ring.

“I don’t understand,” says Carolina, looking between Tex and York. “What is it?”

“Tex’ll tell you later.” York gives Tex a significant look that Tucker tries and fails to parse. “Don’t worry about it.”

After what seems like an eternity, the phone stops ringing, Joan Jett abruptly cutting off. Tucker has no idea what’s going on, but he doesn’t like it, he wants everyone to be happy and relaxed again. “Dude, stop being cryptic and get over here,” he says. York obeys with a snort, settling down next to Tucker on the floor and pulling him halfway into his lap.

“Hey, Tucker,” says Tex suddenly. “Carolina says you lost your dad.”

Something soft and heavy settles on Tucker. He looks over at Carolina, who shrugs apologetically, and says, “Yeah.”

Tex rubs her foot against his arm in what might be a comforting gesture. “You can join the club.”

“Oh, Tex,” protests Carolina halfheartedly. At this point Wash is almost certainly asleep, his breathing slow and deep.

“What club?” Tucker leans back into York, who rests his cheek on Tucker’s hair.

Resting her head on her fist, Tex smiles bitterly. “The Shitty Dads Club.”

“Hey,” objects Tucker, “my dad wasn’t shitty –”

“He doesn’t have to be,” says Carolina gently, her fingers tracing over the shell of Wash’s ear. “Just gone.”

A lump rises to Tucker’s throat. “Oh,” he says softly, and swallows hard. “Who else is in the club?”

Tex points at herself and Carolina with a wry twist of her lips. “Me,” says Wash, eyes still closed, but sounding alert. “Fuck my dad.” Carolina looks down at him in surprise, fingers lingering on his cheek.

“Do I count?” says York. “I mean, technically I don’t have a dad –”

Rolling her eyes, Tex says, “Yeah, but you have two awesome moms, so it doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, totally doesn’t count,” yawns Kai, settling herself more comfortably against Tex. “I guess I’m technically in it too…”

Tucker’s eyes drift shut, York’s arm heavy around his waist. I shouldn’t fall asleep here, he thinks. I should get up…

He wakes up in the dark, a yellow stripe of light painting the wall in front of him. York is draped over him and breathing slow, Caboose’s staccato snores punctuating the silence. And Tucker _really_ has to piss. Disengaging himself from York, he gets to his feet as quietly as possible, and that’s when he sees Tex and Carolina sitting together on Tex’s bed, lit by a single lamp, heads bowed together in conversation.

Tucker freezes, not wanting to disturb them. They’re whispering, just quiet enough for him to not make out their words. But Carolina looks upset, shaking her head, and Tucker can definitely pick up her saying, “No, no…”

Leaning forward, Tex cups the back of Carolina’s head with her hand and tips their foreheads together, desperation clear on her expression and in her indistinct words. Tucker doesn’t want to break the moment, but he _really_ has to pee. He ducks into the bathroom, not looking at them, and when he comes out two minutes later the bedroom door is closed.


	12. and they were ROOMMATES

Tex and York are standing together in the caf, waiting for the grill station to finish their food, when Tex says, “I told Carolina about Dad.”

She stares at the grill in front of her, at the chef flipping burger patties, with her arms folded. “When?” asks York.

“The other night, on my birthday. She… she’s thinking about it.” Tex’s voice and expression remain blank and steady. “She believes me. Just not sure what to do next.”

York’s heart throbs softly, and he throws an arm around Tex’s shoulders, pulling her into his side. “I’m proud of you,” he says, for her ears alone.

With a smile, Tex briefly rests her head on York’s shoulder before stepping away. “You know what Carolina told me? She said she spent her whole life trying to be as good as me so Dad would pay attention to her like he does to me.” Tex laughs briefly, incredulous. “And here I spent my entire life praying that would never happen.”

Unsure of what to say, York looks down at Tex, at the resolute lines of her profile and her iron-straight back, and for a moment he wants to sweep her up and take her far, far away. The Caribbean, maybe, or Rio de Janeiro. Somewhere Tex can just let loose and never worry about anything again. But then the grill calls his ticket number, and he steps forward to claim his food, and when he rejoins Tex she launches into a cheerful tirade against a newly-hired stagehand, and the conversation has moved on.

\--

“Fuck!” says York, slamming his controller down, as a headshot downs his character and his half of the TV screen flashes red. North grins, his soldier avatar alive and well as he hunts down the last few players on the map. “Goddamn, man.”

Chuckling, North ducks behind a building, watching red dots move on the minimap. “Better luck next time, dude.”

York slumps back into the sofa, pulling his phone out to check it. “Oh, hey, Tucker might be by later,” he says, thumbing through his texts. “Probably not for very long, though.”

“He never is,” mutters North.

Glancing sharply at him, York doesn’t miss how North’s posture has changed, his shoulders hunched, his frowning gaze fixed on the TV. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.” With a soft hiss of triumph, he eliminates another enemy. Three left to go.

“Yes, you do, every time I mention Tucker you make some kind of bitchy comment.”

North’s ears turn red, a warning sign. “No, I don’t.” Two enemies left.

“Yes, you do,” snaps York, not in the mood to deal with bullshit.

Sighing, North rubs at his face with one hand. “I’m just not sure he’s good for you,” he says at last, each word careful.

York’s insides twist up uncomfortably. “So what?”

“So, nothing.” The flush starts creeping down North’s cheeks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, still handling the controller. “I’m just saying. You could do better.”

For a minute, York can only stare at him, an angry haze passing over him. “Wow, fuck you,” he says at last.

One enemy left, and North is fully red now, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t mean – I’m sure Tucker’s – a good guy,” he says, voice stilted with concentration. “Just that – I thought you wanted something long-term, with stability –”

“And so what?” demands York, glaring at North. “Why the fuck do you care who I sleep with? Why is that any of your business?”

North turns brilliant crimson, and his fingers slip on the controls. With an echoing gunshot, his character drops to the ground, a red death message flashing on the screen. “Fuck!” snaps North, letting the controller clatter to the table.

“Well?” insists York.

Not meeting York’s eyes, North mutters, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” York can’t believe this, he genuinely can’t believe this, and he leans back into the corner of the couch, his fingers twitching. “Why do you care?”

For a moment, North sits absolutely still. And then he jumps to his feet, going straight to the door and grabbing his keys and shoes. “I’m going out,” he says in a rush, still red-faced, and before York can even process a response he’s gone, the door shut behind him.

\--

“Like, what the fuck!” demands York, sprawled across the sofa with his head in Tex’s lap, too incensed to pay attention to _Fixer-Upper_ on her TV. “And then he just _walks out_! Doesn’t explain anything! Like, why is it such a big damn deal if I’m fucking Tucker, it’s not like we’re doing it in his room, or keeping him awake, or…”

Her head propped on one fist, Tex smiles pityingly down at him. “Oh, York,” she says, patting him on the chest. “You can’t tell?”

Not in the mood to play games, York frowns up at her. “No, I can’t, that’s why I’m talking to you.”

Tex sighs. “North’s in love with you.”

“I,” says York. And then, “Uh.” And then, “ _What?_ ”

“He’s in love with you –”

“No, I heard _that.”_ York sits bolt upright, twisting around to stare at her. “What the _fuck!_ For how long? How come I didn’t know? How come _you_ know?” he demands.

“Since before the PFL retreat, because you’re oblivious, and because I’m not,” says Tex patiently. “To be fair, I thought you knew…”

York frantically tries to remember his every interaction with North in the past few months, searching for hints or clues. He can’t remember anything out of the ordinary, apart from his weird beef with Tucker, which… okay, yeah. That makes a lot of sense. Sudden guilt stabs York as he realizes what it must have been like for North to watch him bring Tucker over, week after week. “How can you tell?” he repeats weakly.

“I guess it’s different when it’s just the two of you,” muses Tex. In the background, Tammi and Rogelio argue about what color they want their basement walls to be. “But whenever we’re in a group, and he’s around… He can’t take his eyes off you.”

York slumps down into the olive canvas couch cushions. “Well, fuck.”

He feels bad, he genuinely does. North was a dick, yeah, but no wonder why. “Hey,” says Tex, poking him in the leg with her foot, and York looks up from his knees. She gives him a little sympathetic smile. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah,” sighs York, rubbing his face. “Maybe two.”

\--

It’s not easy for North to avoid York, considering they literally live together, but he definitely manages it. He leaves early and gets home late, and whenever he is home he goes straight to his room and shuts the door. It’s been a week and York’s seen him maybe twice, for only a few moments as he crosses to the bathroom.

York’s considering texting him to ask for a conversation, but that seems really weird and formal, so he just hangs around as much as possible, hoping to catch North. He gets his chance Tuesday, when his morning class is cancelled and he can spend the morning in. North enters the apartment while York’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating mac and cheese, and freezes for a brief second before making a beeline for his room.

“Hey, man,” says York quickly. “Can I talk to you?”

North freezes in the hallway, posture rigid. “About what?”

“I, uh…” York clears his throat, sets down his fork. “I wanted to apologize. For…” Fuck, what does he even say? “Tex told me about – about how you feel. I had no idea.”

“How I feel?” North’s ears and the back of his neck have turned bright pink.

“Yeah, um. About me. Look, if I’d known, I’d have…” York gestures helplessly, wishing North would turn around and say something, do something –

With a sigh, the tension drains out of North, and he turns to grab a chair and sit at the table, sitting down heavily. “It’s okay,” he says, letting his backpack thump to the ground. “I didn’t expect you to know. And I should apologize, too. What I said yesterday was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, it kind of was,” agrees York, and North laughs shamefacedly. “Like seriously, what the fuck?”

North groans, “I know,” and scrubs at his face. “I wasn’t trying to insult Tucker –”

“You said he wasn’t good enough for me.” York eats another forkful of mac and cheese, watching North closely.

“That came out wrong,” admits North. “I was – am – concerned that the relationship wasn’t right for you. I’ve seen what you’re like after one night stands,” he hurries to add, before York can interrupt. “You’re always disappointed. And I don’t know what Tucker’s intentions are, but if after all this time he still doesn’t plan to commit…”

York stares at him. “Jesus Christ, you got a dowry saved up for me too?”

“Noooo,” laughs North, rubbing the back of his neck, still pink-cheeked. “I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, man. Just don’t want you getting hurt.”

His eyes meet York’s, sincere, and York stirs his fork through the mac and cheese, weirdly touched. “I’m fine,” he says. “I got it handled.”

North doesn’t quite look like he believes him, but all he says is, “Okay,” without judgement.

“I can have Tucker over less, if you want,” offers York, guilt coiled up inside him. “If that makes it easier for you.”

Immediately, North says, “No, you don’t have to. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” York asks, frowning.

“I mean… it’s not _fine_. But it will be.” North smiles wanly at York. “I’ve had my heart broken before and it’ll be broken again. I just don’t want to lose a friend as well.”

North looks at York with almost painful earnestness in the planes of his solid, Anglo-Saxon face, his arms folded on the table. And in that moment, York knows exactly what the bro code demands he do. “C’mere,” he says, holding his arms open and gesturing to North. “Bring it in.”

Laughing, North leans forward and hugs York, slotting together a little awkwardly. York thumps him on the back a couple times. “All good?” he says.

“Yeah.” North pulls back with a little smile. “All good.”

They’re still close, their knees almost touching, and York considers North, the sunlight dusting over his stubble, the blond down of his hair, the curve of his jaw. “I could kiss you,” he says. “If you want.”

North blinks in surprise, lips parting, and then shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Better not to,” he says quietly. “Thanks, though.”

“Sure.” York checks his phone to avoid the awkward silence and realizes he’s got half an hour until his next class. “Shit, I gotta leave soon, I’ve got class…”

Shoving the last of the mac and cheese in his mouth, he scrapes his chair back, getting to his feet. He’s in his room, grabbing his notebook and shoes, when North says, “Oh, York, I need to tell you. I found who put the bleach in Wash’s shampoo.”

York walks back into the kitchen slowly. “Who?”

“Reggie.” North’s voice is hard, his expression set. And with good reason. They’re lucky the only thing Wash lost was his hair; if he’d gotten shampoo in his eyes, or scrubbed his hair longer…

“Shit,” says York. “We’re going to have to kick him out, aren’t we.”

North nods.

Tapping his notebook against his thigh, York considers. He’s not that torn up about it, to be honest; he’s never liked Reggie, the pompous asshole. But it’s going to be a huge hassle. “All right. I’ll let him know before our next meeting.” He sighs and nods to North. “Thanks, man.”

Smiling small and dry, North says, “No problem.”


	13. "let me see what you have" "a knife!!" "NO"

They go out for drinks, Tucker and York and and Tex. “Guys’ night,” Tex calls it jokingly, driving them into Santa Monica. They try out one dive bar-type place that’s kind of dead and end up instead at a little sake bar, occupying one table in the corner under a neon blue lighting panel, opposite a big fish tank in the wall. Tucker’s never had sake before, but he likes it a lot.

“I wanna go to Japan,” says Tex, downing the last of her drink. “I bet it’d be _awesome._ ”

Only slightly slurred, York says, “Hell yeah, let’s go. I bet we can get some cheap tickets –”

Tucker is just drunk enough that this sounds like a great idea. “Oh my God, yes,” he says. “Summer vacation? We’ll go to Japan for a month?”

“ _Dude_ , I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you,” says York with a blinding grin. “We’re totally doing it, let’s buy tickets right now –”

“Oh no.” Tex puts her hands on the table, leaning back in her chair. “No. Guys. We can’t go.”

Tucker looks at her in dismay. “Why not?”

“Because if we do, Kai is going to make me watch _anime,_ ” she whispers, eyes wide. “She’s been trying for weeks.”

“Oh, come on,” says Tucker, pleasantly warm all over. “You can’t let that stop you.”

“No, you don’t understand, she wants to show me hentai –”

Two things happen at the same time. The door opens behind them, the noise of the street suddenly louder, and York stiffens, gazing over Tucker’s shoulder. Twisting around in his seat, Tucker sees two guys walking into the bar, and his stomach immediately sinks. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, turning immediately around, because the last person he wants to talk to right now (or ever) is Creepy RA Butch Flowers. The other guy with him, Tucker doesn’t recognize, dressed in white and beige with a big dark mustache, a beer bottle in his hand.

But it’s too late. “Lavernius?” says Flowers brightly. “Wow! So great to see you here!”

He makes a beeline for the table and pulls out a chair, plopping himself down in between Tucker and Tex. Tucker grimaces at Tex behind his hand, and she appraises Flowers with raised eyebrows. York, on the other hand, is watching the other guy extremely warily. “Hey, Reggie,” he says stiffly.

“York,” says the other guy, and he’s got a posh British accent. “Fancy meeting you here.” He sounds pleased in a sarcastic sort of way, and also drunk.

“Well, isn’t this fun!” Flowers looks from Tex to Tucker with a bright smile, pale eyes wide and cheery. “I didn’t know you were old enough to drink, Tucker.”

He’s not, but the fake ID Tex hooked him up with sure says so. “Yeah,” says Tucker, forcing a smile. “I got started with college a little late.”

“Oh, no shame in that.” Leaning in, Flowers nudges Tucker with his elbow and whispers, winking, “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I know what it’s like to be young and want to get out and enjoy life!”

Tucker has no idea what to say to that, so he just gulps down more sake. “I don’t know why you’ve all got your panties in a twist,” Reggie says to York, gesturing emphatically. “It was just a prank!”

Gray fire burns in York’s eyes. “A dangerous one.”

“Oh, come on –”

“We’re not arguing this,” snaps York, sliding his sake glass back and forth over the polished white tabletop. “You broke our code of conduct, you’re out of PFL. That’s it.”

“Oh, dear, that’s not very friendly,” says Flowers.

Tucker looks back and forth between York and Reggie, his brain catching up to the conversation. “Wait, what’s happening? Why is he kicked out?”

“My God, you can’t even take a joke?” Reggie says, too loudly, and several other bar patrons turn to look at them. One of the staff behind the bar has the phone in her hand, ready to dial. “No one was even hurt –”

“But they could have been,” snaps York. “Believe me, if Wash had gotten hurt, you’d be out of more than just PFL –” Tex hisses in a sudden breath, her eyes narrowed.

Reggie rolls his eyes. “But he wasn’t, so I don’t know why you’re making such a big fucking deal out of this.”

Everyone is definitely watching them now. “I’m not talking about this in here,” mutters York, standing up and walking to the door. “You can come with me if you want to be a fucking adult.”

“York –” blurts Tucker, half-turning to look after him, but he’s out the door without a backward glance, Reggie staggering behind him and draining the last of his beer.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” chirps Flowers, and – where did he get a cup of sake from? Is that Tucker’s sake? “They just need to blow off a little steam.”

Tucker shoots a worried look at Tex, who meets his eyes with a serious expression and a tiny shake of her head. “Is that about bleaching Wash’s hair?” says Tucker, and she nods.

Craning around, Tucker looks for York and Reggie through the glass front windows, but they’ve moved out of his line of sight. But he can hear them, shouting angrily at each other.

“That’s all it is,” continues Flowers calmly, licking a drop of sake off his finger. “I’m sure once they get it out of their system they’ll come back in arm-in-arm, the best of friends –”

Glass shatters, and someone cries out in pain.

Tucker dashes out of his chair and to the door, nearly tripping over himself. Outside under the orange light of street lamps, Reggie grabs York’s shirt with the broken beer bottle raised in one hand, and York claws at his arm with his other hand to his face.

“What the _hell_?” roars Tucker, lunging forward and tearing Reggie away from York. His eyes are wide, and he grunts as Tucker slams his back into a tree, the broken bottle shattering on the ground. “Don’t you put a fucking hand on him again –”

Behind Tucker, York makes a soft, torn sound of pain that turns Tucker’s raging blood to ice.

Dropping Reggie, Tucker spins around to York, who staggers against the wall, still clutching his left eye. Dark liquid covers his fingers and drips down his neck and – oh. Oh, _fuck._ “Oh, Jesus,” breathes Tucker, rushing over as York sinks unsteadily to the ground with his back to the wall and crouching down in front of him. “Hey. York. What happened?” Tucker is vaguely aware of Tex and Wash yelling at Reggie and Flowers behind him.

York’s breathing is quick and shallow, his good eye wide, and when Tucker cups the side of York’s head he can feel him shaking. “He hit me in the eye,” manages York, swallowing hard, “and it hurts, I can’t see out of it, Tucker –”

He’s going into shock. “Look at me. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay,” says Tucker, calm and firm. “Deep breaths, all right?”

York nods.

“Let me see,” says Tucker, gently pulling York’s hand away from his eye, and York stiffens and hisses in pain. It’s hard to tell in this lighting but it looks bad, blood everywhere. “All right,” says Tucker, pushing sick dread far, far down. Taking his t-shirt off, he folds it up and presses it to York’s eye, forcing himself to ignore his wince. “Put your hand on this. Keep pressure here, okay?”

Mutely, York obeys, his fingers folding over Tucker’s. He’s still shaking, and is Tucker imagining it or does he feel cold? “Are you okay?” says Tex over Tucker’s shoulder. “Oh my God –”

She honest-to-God snarls and there’s a solid _smack!_ and Wash yells “Tex!” as someone hits the ground with a grunt of pain. Twisting around, Tucker sees Tex struggling furiously, hair flying, as both Flowers and Wash fight to keep her from tearing into Reggie, now sprawled out on the sidewalk.

“You motherfucker,” growls Tex, low and deadly, and shivers run down Tucker’s spine. With a sudden twist and a snap of her elbow she throws Wash off, then kicks Flowers in the knee, and his leg buckles but he hangs on. “I’m going to tear your spine out –”

A steadying hand on York’s shoulder, Tucker snaps, “Tex! I need you to drive us to the hospital!”

She freezes, fists clenched. Then with a sudden shiver like steel plates shuttering down her back, Tex rips her arm out of Flower’s slackened grasp. “Stay here, I’ll get the car,” she orders, and sprints off.

Groaning, pomaded hair falling limply in his face, Reggie rolls onto his side. Flowers kneels by him, a hand on his shoulder, murmuring something Tucker can’t hear. “Hey,” says Tucker, to York. “You still with me?”

York nods, still holding Tucker’s shirt to his face. He’s definitely shivering, even though the night is mild. In the streetlamp light his skin and hair are amber, his eyes dark, the blood on his skin and clothing black.

“Good. Hey, can you do me a favor? Can you lie down?”

“I don’t think now’s the time,” says York muzzily, but he obeys. Tucker gets his legs elevated as best as possible, checking his pulse to see if it’s slowed any. Maybe a little bit.

 “You’re gonna be fine, okay?” says Tucker, making sure York’s still putting pressure on his eye. “We’re just gonna go to the hospital and get this patched up.”

“Mm,” says York, his gaze fixed on Tucker. Wash is talking to Flowers and Reggie (both on their feet now), his eyes like obsidian.

Tex’s black Mustang pulls up to the curb with a screech. “All right, come on,” says Tucker, putting an arm under York’s shoulders and helping him up. He staggers, clutching at Tucker to stay upright.

“How’re you doing?” demands Tex as Tucker helps York into the back seat.

“I think he’s going into shock,” says Tucker, sliding in beside York. At least York can buckle himself in unassisted. “Talk to me, buddy, how’re you feeling?”

York leans forward with his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “Awful,” he says, muffled.

The engine revs and Tex peels out into the street, darting around cars to a tune of offended honks. She speeds through Santa Monica, racing through yellow lights, heading for the nearest hospital. But they barely get onto the freeway before a siren starts up behind them, red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.

Snarling under her breath, Tex pulls over to the shoulder. Palms clammy, heart in his throat, Tucker tries to recede into the couch cushions as much as possible. York, on the other hand, looks too miserable to care.

“Come on,” growls Tex, drumming her hands on the steering wheel as the cop takes their sweet time walking over. He’s barely gotten to her, flashlight shining inside the car, when Tex rolls the window down and practically shouts at him, “We gotta get to the hospital, he’s hurt!” and points back at York.

The cop shines his flashlight on York, who winces, clutching Tucker’s bloody shirt to his bloody face. “Oh,” says the cop, glancing over at Tucker, who tries to look as non-threatening as possible. “Oh. Uh. Okay.” He’s young, Tucker realizes, and visibly uncomfortable, maybe because of the blood –

“We gotta go or he’s gonna bleed out!” snaps Tex. “He could lose his eye!”

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” stammers the cop. “I’ll give you an escort –”

Tex has already rolled up the window. “Fucking pig,” she mutters, starting the engine. The cop car barely has its lights on before she’s revving up and tearing back onto the freeway.

Sighing in relief, Tucker slumps back in his seat, his mouth still dry. York looks over at him, a desperate expression on the exposed side of his face. “Am I going to lose my eye?” he says, in quiet horror.

“No,” says Tucker immediately, as Tex speeds down the freeway, cars drifting away from the lights and siren behind her. “No, you’re gonna be fine –”

York shivers, his fist clenched. “It really hurts,” he admits, strained.

Without thinking, Tucker reaches out to put his hand over York’s, and York immediately laces his fingers through Tucker’s, grabbing tight. Neither of them say anything for the rest of the drive, just hold on to each other.

They pull up at the hospital an eternity later, Tex pulling up in front of the ER, bright white lights from inside spilling out over them. The red blood is stark on York’s hands and face and shirt. “You go in,  I’ll park the car,” says Tex as Tucker and York get out.

York can walk okay but Tucker comes right back to his side, a hand on his back as they pass through the sliding double doors. There are a handful of people passing through, nurses and guests, and one woman gasps as they walk by. Tucker steers York straight towards the ER door and the security guard at her stand in front of it. When she sees York, she waves them through without having them sign in.

In the ER waiting room, the receptionist at the desk immediately picks up the phone and buzzes the intercom when Tucker gets York through the doors. “Oh, that doesn’t look good,” she says sympathetically, putting the phone down. “We’ll get you in triage right away –”

And sure enough a nurse hurries forward to York, reaching up to briefly look under the now-sodden shirt. Tsking, she guides York towards the blue curtained-room she emerged from, and Tucker immediately grabs his hand, refusing to be separated. “All right, let’s get this looked at,” she says briskly, and York exhales shakily, squeezing Tucker’s hand. Her gaze flicks over York, over Tucker, over their joined hands. “Are you his boyfriend?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Tucker immediately.

She ushers them into a small room, beige like the rest of the hospital, guiding York towards a plastic chair. There’s another chair in the corner that Tucker drags over so he can sit next to York and still hold his hand as the nurse starts cleaning off his eye. “So what happened?” she asks.

Tucker glances at York, who doesn’t look like he wants to talk. “He got hit in the face.”

“There are a lot of lacerations –”

Anger burns Tucker’s stomach, and he says, “With a broken bottle.”

“That would do it,” mutters the nurse. She is short, heavyset, with deep magenta hair. “Any allergies to medications?”

York shakes his head briefly.

“Any history of heart disease, of liver disease, of…”

As York continues to answer her questions, Tucker’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out to see Tex calling. “Hey, we’re in triage,” he says immediately.

“I’m in the waiting room,” says Tex. “I called his parents, they should be here in about forty-five minutes. They can fill out all the insurance paperwork.”

“Oh,” says Tucker. His brain is too full of the here and now, of York sitting stiffly with blood on his hands and trying not to wince in pain, of the sterile smell of the hospital, to have room for any of that. “Okay.”

There’s a pause. “How’s he doing?” asks Tex, quieter.

Tucker looks over at York, who has his good eye closed, his hand gripping Tucker’s. “Okay.”

“I’m going to kill that guy,” says Tex with deadly assurance, and hangs up.

The nurse gets York kind of cleaned up, white gauze taped over his eye, and then says, “Okay, York, I’m going to need you to come with me to surgery, we’ve got to act quickly to save what we can. Tucker, you need to go back to the waiting room, all right?”

“What?” says Tucker indignantly. “No way! I’m going with him!” York’s hold on his hand is painfully tight, and he sucks in a panicked breath.

“You’re just going to be in the way,” says the nurse, sympathetic but firm. “Go back to the waiting room.”

She’s right. Tucker stands, starting to disengage from York, but he hangs on with a wordless, desperate sound that tears Tucker’s heart in two. “Hey,” he says softly, and leans in on impulse to kiss York, smelling iron and iodine, a brief warm touch of his lips against York’s. “I’ll be back. Okay?”

York swallows and nods. “Okay.”

The nurse whisks York back into the innards of the hospital and Tucker is left with nothing but the sounds of the hospital. There’s blood on his own hands, he realizes, York’s blood, and he hurriedly washes it off in the sink.

Head ringing faintly, he walks back into the waiting room, and there’s Tex, eyes red and face pale with worry and anger. “What’s happening?” she demands.

“They’re taking him in for surgery…” says Tucker, and oh God, the nurse said “save what we can,” didn’t she, and Tucker’s head swims and he has to sit down on a horrible hard plastic chair. He puts his head in his hands and stares at his knees and blinks back tears because he can do that now, he can let himself be afraid and he’s _really fucking afraid._

“What do you mean, surgery?” snaps Tex.

Taking a deep breath and raising his head, Tucker says, “To fix his eye.” 

Tex stands in front of him with her arms folded. “Can they?”

“I think so,” manages Tucker. “They have to be able to, right?”

“They better.” Tex glares at the pale walls and linoleum floor of the waiting room, her jaw clenched. Behind her an old man on a stretcher is rushed in by EMTs, an oxygen mask over his face. “Hey, you want my jacket?”

“Oh, shit.” Tucker kind of forgot he wasn’t wearing a shirt, no wonder people were giving him funny looks. “Yeah, thanks.”

She strips her jacket off, revealing a black tank top underneath. It’s a big green Army surplus coat, the cuffs frayed, pins and patches all over it. Tucker puts it on and zips it up all the way; it’s a little tight across the shoulders and chest but it’s better than nothing. “It’s a good look on you,” says Tex dryly, scrutinizing him.

“Thanks.”

After a few minutes of tense silence, Tex starts pacing, while Tucker knots his hands together and tries not to think about what’s happening to York, if they knocked him out or it’s just local anesthetic, if York needs Tucker there… “What’s Wash doing?” Tucker asks suddenly, remembering.

Tex shrugs.

Grateful for something to do, Tucker pulls his phone out and calls Wash. “Hey,” says Wash, almost immediately. “What’s happening?”

“Tex and I are at the hospital, York’s getting his eye looked at, Tex called his moms and they’re on the way,” says Tucker. “Are you still in Santa Monica? We kind of stranded you…”

“It’s fine,” says Wash hastily. “Carolina picked me up. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Tucker rubs at his face. “Hey, what were you talking to those assholes about, anyway?”

Dangerously calm, Wash says, “Getting Reggie’s contact information. Since York’s mom is a lawyer, I figured she might want to know. I think Bloodgulch will too, especially considering he got expelled from PFL. Did you know he’s the one who put bleach in my hair?”

Oh, that’s right, Tucker learned that at the bar, though that seems like an eon ago now. “Yeah, that’s why he was mad at York, for kicking him out.”

“Well, I’ve written down a full statement, and you and Tex should, too, before you forget any details,” continues Wash. “I think at this point it’s up to his parents if they want to call the cops. But if they go to court those will be useful too.”

“Dude,” says Tucker tiredly, rubbing at his face. “You planning to be a lawyer?”

Wash pauses. “Law enforcement, actually,” he says, with forced lightness. Tex still paces, chewing on her lip her boots clumping on the floor. “Hang in there, it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” There’s kind of not a lot to say after that, and Tucker hangs up. It’s nearly one in the morning. Tucker’s face feels numb, his head heavy.

After a while, Tex gets tired of pacing. “I’m going to get food,” she announces. “You want anything?”

Tucker can’t fathom eating at the moment. “Nah.”

“’Kay.” She wanders off towards the cafeteria.

When she returns, it’s with the saddest-looking club sandwich Tucker has ever seen. “You want some?” says Tex, holding it towards him, lettuce dangling limply from between the bread.

Shaking his head, Tucker goes back to mindlessly scrolling through Twitter on his phone. Tex sits down beside him, making her way through the sandwich with grim determination.

At one-thirty-two a.m., Tex jumps to her feet, heading straight for the doors. Two middle-aged women have walked in, one round-faced with soft brown hair, the other tall and slim, bronze-skinned with an aquiline nose. Tex runs straight up to them and the shorter one immediately pulls her into a hug.

Must be York’s moms. Tucker gets to his feet slowly, putting his phone in his pocket, and walks towards them. The tall woman sees him first, her eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?” she says, with a distinct Middle Eastern accent.

Turning around, Tex says, “This is Tucker, he’s York’s… uh…”

“Boyfriend,” says Tucker, and if it wasn’t such a shitty night he would treasure the stunned look on Tex’s face forever.

“Oh, _you’re_ Tucker,” says the shorter woman, who is dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, her eyes the same blue-gray as York’s. She takes Tucker’s hand in both of her own, saying, “I’m Maria, I’m York’s mother.”

“Hi,” says Tucker, because he can’t think of anything else. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry…”

She blinks at him. “For what?”

“For all of this,” says Tucker, waving his hand around at the waiting room.

“Oh,” says Maria, looking around as if she still hasn’t processed why she’s here. “Yeah. That’s…” She takes a deep breath and looks up at her wife, twisting her hands together.

The tall woman, her dark hair clipped short and graying at the temples, says, “I am Ismat. Thank you for your assistance, Tucker, but we need to talk to the staff now,” and she strides over to the receptionist. She must be the lawyer, Tucker decides.

Both women are soon absorbed in paperwork. Tucker returns to his seat, so exhausted his ears ring faintly. After a few moments, Tex drifts over as well, looking as wan as Tucker feels. “Are you staying the night?” she asks, hoarse.

“Yeah,” says Tucker. “Until they discharge him. You think it’ll take all night?”

Tex shrugs, hands shoved in her pockets. “It’s like two a.m. now.”

Rubbing his eyes, Tucker sighs, “Fuck.” He knows, though, that he’s not leaving until he sees York again. Until he makes sure he’s okay. Tex slumps down onto the seat next to him, curling her feet up under her, staring out at nothing. Two other families sit waiting as well, on the other side of the room.

The minutes stretch on. York’s moms have disappeared, to fill out more paperwork or get more details from hospital staff, or both. At one point a nurse, a young redheaded guy, gently inquires if Tex and Tucker want coffee. Tucker declines, but Tex accepts a Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee, gulping it down like she can’t feel the heat. At some point Maria and Ismat return, sitting a few chairs down from Tucker.

Tucker fights to stay awake, his head heavy, his eyelids heavy, his everything heavy. Gradually Tex has shifted in her seat until she’s leaning against Tucker, eyes half-closed. Time has no meaning anymore, the night outside is dark but the fluorescent lights are bright as day, Tucker waits for an hour and checks his phone and it’s only been five minutes.

At three-forty-seven a.m., a dark-haired woman in a white doctor’s coat and purple scrubs enters, holding a clipboard. “Mrs. Elahi and Mrs. Cicchi?” she says, entirely too bright and high-pitched for this late at night.

They immediately get to their feet and cross over to her; Tex punches Tucker in the arm and sits up straight, grabbing his shoulder. Tucker strains to hear what the doctor is telling them, but she keeps her voice low, and York’s moms have their backs to Tucker so he can’t read their faces. “What is she saying?” hisses Tex.

“I don’t know.”

They talk for a few more minutes, and then move towards the elevators. Immediately Tex jumps to her feet, hurrying after them, and Tucker scrambles to follow, all tiredness gone. “What’s happening?” she demands, once she’s in talking distance. “Is he okay?”

The doctor, whose nametag reads E. GREY, stops talking to smile at Tucker and Tex. “Oh, hello there!” she says, unfathomably chipper. “Are you friends of York’s?”

“We brought him here,” says Tex. “How is he?”

“Out of surgery! We want to keep him here a _little_ longer just to make sure there’s no reactions to the anesthetic but he should be just fine!” She beams at the four of them; her earrings are little plastic pandas and her lip gloss sparkles. Tucker’s not entirely sure he isn’t hallucinating.

“And what about his eye?” asks Tucker. Maria looks worried but Ismat’s expression is unreadable, it could go either way –

Dr. Grey chirps, “As I was telling his parents, there will be moderate vision loss and heavy scarring, but he won’t lose his eye! Considering the injury, that could have been so much worse, don’t you think?”

For a moment Tucker wants to puke out of sheer relief and exhaustion and _what kind of heavy scarring._ Tex lets out a deep breath, her hands on her hips, and laughs nervously. “Can we see him?” asks Tucker.

“Well, I think his parents should, first,” says Dr. Grey, still smiling. “But then yes, of course you can!”

So Tucker and Tex go up with Dr. Grey and Maria and Ismat but wait in the hallway outside whatever recovery room York is in. Once the women have gone in, Tex relieves her feelings by punching Tucker several times in the arm, hard. “Ow!” yelps Tucker, staggering. “What’s that for?”

“Nothing,” says Tex, and fishes a pack of gum out of her jacket pocket – the jacket that Tucker’s still wearing. “He’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” sighs Tucker. “She said there would be scarring and vision loss, though…”

Tex looks up at him, gray eyes wide and sincere. “It could be a lot worse,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

A few minutes later, Dr. Grey emerges and beckons them over. “He’s very tired but alert,” she says, smiling at them. And then, dropping her voice slightly, she says to Tucker, “And can I just say, young man, how nice it is to see you being open about your sexuality, especially as a young black man? We need more of that in this world!”

“Uh,” says Tucker, because how does she know about him and York, and then he realizes that one of the pins on Tex’s jacket front is a shiny blue-and-pink BI PRIDE pin. Dr. Grey beams at him with the same fondness as a proud parent. “Yeah,” says Tucker, smiling back, ignoring Tex’s choked-off laugh. “Thank you.”

Dr. Grey pats him on the arm. “You can go in and talk to him,” she says. “Oh! I _knew_ you looked familiar! You played Puck last November, didn’t you?”

Tucker gapes at her. “How did you – what?”

“Why, I was there on opening night!” says Dr. Grey. “Sergeant Russell always takes me to see his shows. He calls me his good luck charm,” and she winks at Tucker.

This has to be a hallucination. Tucker stares at her, his brain struggling to put together the pieces. Beside him, Tex makes a sound like a strangled duck, her shoulders shaking. “You’re dating _Sarge_?” she manages.

“Oh, yes! Now, would you like to talk to your friend?”

Heart thrumming nervously, Tucker walks into the recovery ward. It’s a long room with beds along one wall, the same beige floor and walls as everywhere else, heavy blue-gray curtains separating the beds. York is in the third one down, Ismat and Maria standing by him, fresh bandages taped over his eye. When he sees Tucker and Tex he smiles tiredly, only the good side of his face really moving. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” breathes Tucker, sitting down on his bed. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, hospital gowns and tubes and bandages everywhere, but York looks mostly normal. Just exhausted, and with blood on his t-shirt and his eye covered up, but normal. “How’re you feeling?”

“I can’t feel the side of my face,” slurs York, and laughs a little. “Which is maybe a good thing.” His moms have stepped back to talk more with Dr. Grey.

“Yeah.” Tucker worries about taking York’s hand for a second and then decides he doesn’t care, and grabs it in both of his. York looks grateful for the contact. “It’s not too bad, huh? I mean, it could be worse…”

York shrugs, and Tucker can tell he’s trying not to look like it bothers him, but it does. “Guess I’m going to have to start relying on my personality now instead of my good looks.”

“Good looks, my ass,” snorts Tex, standing at the foot of his bed with her arms folded, and York chuckles tiredly. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

They sit around for a little, too tired to do much more than make stupid jokes. Eventually Dr. Grey comes over for one final check-up and deems York good to leave. He’s going with his parents, Tucker realizes with a brief flash of panic. It’s probably a good idea, though.

“Hey,” says Tucker quietly to York, as they, Tex, and Maria stand on the side of the ER lane, waiting for Ismat to bring the car around. “You’re…” He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Text me? Make sure you’ll be okay?

With a tired sigh, York leans into Tucker, nuzzling at his hair. “Stay.”

“I can’t, dude, I have classes tomorrow – today…”

York makes a little disgusted noise and it really shouldn’t be cute, but it is. “Fine.”

“You’ll be back on campus soon, though, right?” Tucker looks over at Maria, who gives him a small smile.

“Probably,” she says.

A sleek gray Mercedes pulls up, Ismat in the driver’s seat. “Hey, see you soon,” says Tucker, pulling York into a hug. York wraps his arms around Tucker, pressing his face into Tucker’s neck. And he’s warm, and solid, and only smells a little bit like disinfectant, and Tucker almost wishes he could fall asleep right here.

But he can’t, and York really shouldn’t. Disengaging, Tucker rubs at the back of York’s neck, looking him over. He can’t make words, so he just kind of pats York on his good cheek – York tilts his head into Tucker’s palm, eye closing – and steps back. Tex gives York a hug, and then he gets in the car with Maria, and then they’ve driven off.

“So,” says Tucker, swaying on his feet. It’s five-sixteen a.m. now. “You’re good to drive, right?”

Tex shakes her hair out of its ponytail, pulls it back up again. “Yeah.”

The drive feels like a dream sequence, Tex zooming along the mostly-empty freeway, the dark deserted canyon road back to campus. By the time Tucker makes it to his dorm there’s the faintest light on the horizon, the sky tinted deep blue instead of black. Unlocking his room door, he stumbles in, collapses on his bed, and falls asleep.


	14. I AM THE SAND GUARDIAN, GUARDIAN OF THE SAND

Tucker sleeps through his first morning class, wakes up, checks his phone, and sleeps through his second morning class. At about one p.m. he drags himself out of bed for a shower, sends York a quick text ( _Hey hows it going?_ ) and wanders into the kitchen to find a half-empty box of pizza on the table with a post-it note stuck on top.

_Lunch is on me. Wash._

For a moment Tucker can only stand there and blink back stupid, unaccountable tears. Crying about half a lukewarm pepperoni pizza. This is happening now. He gives himself a couple moments to be emotional before pulling himself together. Sitting down to eat, he messages Wash.

_Dude thanks for the pizza_

_Means a lot_

Wash’s response comes nearly an hour later, as Tucker’s getting ready to leave for his student worker job (receptionist for the fitness studio).

_No problem. How’s York?_

Tucker hasn’t heard back from him yet, but he’s not surprised, York’s probably either asleep or way out of it.

_Dunno he hasn’t texted me back yet_

_That’s fair._

_I wanted to say, I thought you handled last night really well. Do you have first aid training?_

Tucker pauses in the dorm doorway, sliding his feet into flip-flops.

_Yeah_

_I told you about my dad right?_

_You mentioned that he passed._

_Heart attack_

_It happened right in front of me and I couldn’t do anything about it_

_So when I turned my life around a few years later one of the things I promised myself is that id never be that helpless again_

The sun is shining outside, and it’s a beautiful spring afternoon. The sky is forget-me-not blue and the ocean only a few shades darker. The eucalyptus and pepper trees wave their leaves gently in the breeze. Tucker’s heart aches as it does whenever he thinks of Dad, and he wants to hear from York, but it’s hard not to feel at least a little at peace.

_Well, I was impressed._

_Thanks_

\--

York curls up against Tucker’s side, sinking into the couch cushions. On his TV, the opening title screen for _Return of the King_ appears. “Oh shit, here we go,” says Tucker, his arm draped over York’s shoulders.

It’s nice to be back at the apartment, with his clothes and DVDs and everything. A week after fucking Reginald sliced his face open, York feels almost okay. His eye is still bandaged – driving back from his parents’ place was interesting – but it doesn’t hurt too badly. The Vicodin helps.

“When do the bandages come off?” says Tucker, looking over at York.

Sighing, York rests his head on Tucker’s shoulder. “Another week, I think,” he says. “Then I’m supposed to wear a patch until the cuts fully heal, protect it from sun or some shit.”

“Dude.” Tucker grins, a mischievous light in his dark eyes. “You’re going to be a pirate.”

Every time York thinks about his face, his stomach turns uncomfortably. “Pirates aren’t very sexy.”

“Are you kidding? Look at fucking Jack Sparrow –”

On screen, Gandalf leads the group through the wreckage of Isengard, debris floating in the water, the signs of ruin clear. “I think maybe I should keep wearing the patch after it’s healed,” says York quietly. “The scars are going to be gnarly. And my eye is all fucked-up looking.” He shifts on the couch, pulling his feet up under him, drawing in.

Tucker’s arm is heavy on his shoulders. “Do you want to wear the patch?”

Considering, York says, “I don’t know.” His stomach sinks. “I don’t want people to look at me weird.” _I don’t want_ you _to look at me weird…_

“Hm.” Sitting up straighter, Tucker turns to face York. “Can I…?” and he lifts gently at the edge of the bandages.

York swallows hard. “Sure.”

Very gently, Tucker peels back the tape. York winces as light reaches his swollen eye, the left side of his vision one big light blur. But he can see Tucker just fine, a slight frown on his handsome face as he scrutinizes the injury. York slides his hands under his thighs to hide them shaking, this is it, this is the moment when Tucker pulls back in disgust –

Tucker shrugs. “Looks fine to me,” he says, and winks at York. “Or at least, you do. Fine as hell, I mean, bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

The anxious balloon in York’s gut pops, relief flooding up to his head, and he laughs. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Dude, you criticizing my taste?” says Tucker, offended, and he smooths the bandage back down. “I know what I’m talking about,” and he leans in and kisses York on the lips.

Warmth spreads through York like golden honey, down to the very tips of his fingers and toes. He kisses Tucker back, sliding a hand over the denim curve of his thigh, Tucker’s hands soft on his cheeks and jaw. This is the best he’s felt all week, he could stay here forever, him and Tucker and _Return of the King_ and the afternoon sunlight…

“Oh,” says Tucker suddenly, pulling back. “I. Um. At the hospital. I kind of said I was your boyfriend.”

York frowns at him. “I know. I was there.” And too dazed and in pain to really process it, but now…

“I also said that to your parents,” says Tucker apologetically.

The warmth recedes, and York says slowly, “Do you want to take that back?”

“No!” Tucker’s denial is swift and genuine, and York rockets back towards elation. “No no no, I, uh… I think I meant it? But I don’t know what you… what you want. And if I’d given your moms the wrong impression, or something.”

Draping his legs over Tucker’s lap, York puts a hand to the back of Tucker’s head and pulls him in closer, their foreheads touching. “Dude,” he says. “You gonna chicken out on me now?”

Tucker scoffs, his arms looping around York’s waist. “Nah, man, are you?”

“No way.” York kisses Tucker, lips pushing and pulling, Tucker grabbing at him, their breathing picking up. “No fucking way, dude…”

On screen, Pippin cries out and writhes on the floor, the palantír a fiery ball in his hands as violins shriek in the soundtrack. “Woah, what the fuck?” says Tucker, breaking away from the kiss to stare at the TV. “Hang on, rewind, what happened?”

Grinning, York picks up the remote and rewinds the past fifteen minutes. As he settles back into the couch, still sprawled across Tucker, a lightness swells in his chest. Maybe – just maybe – everything is gonna be okay.

\--

Waves crash against the rocks, turning the jagged surfaces slick with saltwater. York scrambles up after Tex, trying to avoid stepping on barnacles and muscles, sand in his hair and his fingers and his toes. Having reached the top, Tex stands with her hands on her hips, silhouetted against the sunset, her ponytail blowing in the breeze. “Look,” she says, pointing. “Dolphins.”

Coming up beside her, York shades his eye from the tangerine-colored sun, following the line of Tex’s hand. Among the red-gold-blue stained glass ocean he can just make out dark shapes rising and falling from the waves. “Oh yeah.” The wind whips at his tank top (SLEEVES ARE BULLSHIT), his swim shorts damp with sea spray.

Tex sighs wistfully, the sunset reflected in her aviator sunglasses. The lines of her black bikini top are stark against her pale skin. “They’re pretty far away, huh?” she says quietly.

“Couple miles, maybe.” York’s ability to judge distances has not been improved by recent events. “Not that far.”

“Far enough,” sighs Tex.

His bare shoulder brushing hers, York reaches down and takes Tex’s hand. “You’ll get away,” he says. “Sooner or later.” Her fingers tighten around his. “Just holler if you need me, and I’ll be there.”

Tex smiles up at him. “I know.”

The sun sinks lower, kissing the waves. Snorting, Tex withdraws her hand and points again, this time down at the beach. “Look at them,” she says, in mock disgust.

Two figures walk hand-in-hand on the beach – Wash and Carolina. The picture of romantic love. York can’t help smiling a little. “She’s gonna be okay, Tex,” he says. “All three of you are.”

“Yeah.” Tex squares her shoulders, staring out at the horizon with determination. “We are.”

\--

Tucker swallows hard, his grip on his cell phone sweaty, as it rings and rings. “Hello?” says Mama Tucker at last.

“Hey, Mama,” says Tucker, with an instinctual smile. York, seated cross-legged opposite him on Tucker’s bed, smiles too, his fingers rubbing over Tucker’s ankle. “How’s it going?”

“Hi, Lavernius!” warbles Mama. “Oh, good, good,  it is _hot_ here, you would not believe the weather we’re having –”

They chitchat for a little while, Tucker informing her on classes, on food, on friends, listening while Mama recounts her latest fight with the local school board, and all the while his heart pounds faster and faster. “Hey, uh, Mama?” he says at last. “I got something to tell you…”

The silence at the other end of the phone is ominous. “What is it?” she says warily.

“It’s good! It’s nothing bad,” Tucker says hastily. “I’m, uh. I’m in a relationship.” Pause, swallow. “With a guy.” His hand drums nervously on his leg; York smiles encouragingly at him, his good eye warm.

There is a long, long pause, during which Tucker’s heart climbs into his throat. At last, Mama asks, “Are you happy?”

Tucker breaks into a grin, York seated beside him with the sun glowing on his bronze hair and ochre skin, with his dark eye patch and green polo shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m happy.”

“Well then, baby, that’s all I need to know,” says Mama, and the air whooshes out of Tucker in relief. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I am,” says Tucker, because he _is_ , he could burst from it right now, swelling up inside him so much it pushes tears to his eyes. “I really am, it’s been crazy, but it’s been great –”

“Oh, honey, it’s always like that, that’s how you know it’s real.” Mama sounds close to tears herself. “What’s he like? Is he handsome? Smart? Does he play sports?”

Looking over at York, Tucker grins in sudden mischievous inspiration. “He’s right here, actually,” he says, and York’s eye widens in surprise, his lips parting. “You wanna talk to him?”

“Oh,” flutters Mama, “yeah, I’d like that…”

Tucker holds the phone out to York, who looks faintly alarmed. “You sure?” he mouths.

Nodding, Tucker winks at him, raises an eyebrow in unspoken challenge.

Taking the phone, York says, “Hello, Mrs. Tucker,” smooth and warm as Cary Grant, a crooked smile playing on his lips. The sudden urge to laugh hits Tucker, at this strange reality he somehow landed himself in, at the chain of events that led to York charming his mama. “My name is York Elahi, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to the AD chat, without whom this fic would not exist. <3
> 
> There is an epilogue. If you prefer happy endings, I'd recommend stopping here.


	15. Epilogue

“Dad?” says Junior, holding up the tablet towards him across the kitchen counter. “Who’s this?”

“Huh?” Tucker peers at the picture on the screen, and his stomach does a little jolt of recognition. “Oh, that’s York, we dated my freshman year.” God, Tucker looks so young in the picture, they both do, smiling easily up at the camera. He remembers taking that selfie, messing around with York one lazy afternoon. Ended up liking the picture so much he posted it. “Wait a minute, how’d you find my Instagram?”

Distracted, scrolling through photos, Junior says, “Auntie Carolina showed it to me. I didn’t believe her when she said you had dreadlocks in college.”

Tucker frantically racks his brain to see if there’s anything on his Instagram that Junior shouldn’t see. Shit, he can’t remember. “Well, she was right.”

“Why’d you cut them off?” asks Junior, looking up at Tucker with dark almond eyes. “They were rad.”

Sighing, Tucker leans against the counter. “I dunno. Wanted a change. Needed to look a little more professional.”

Junior frowns. “Why aren’t dreads professional?”

“Because some people are dumb, that’s why.”

“Why?”

“Eat your cereal, kiddo, you’re going to be late for school.”

\--

Tucker puts it out of his mind for most of the morning. But while on lunch break, he checks Instagram, and that reminds him of the conversation, and then he’s thinking about York in a way that he hasn’t for… years, really.

When the school year ended they were going to try long-distance over the summer, they really were. Tucker was going to put real effort into it. And it went okay for a couple of weeks, but then York got clingy and weird which just made Tucker want to pull away, and it fell apart pretty quickly after that.

By the time Tucker went off to Buenos Aires there wasn’t much left between them beyond a vague “well maybe we’ll see each other again,” and when he came back to campus next year York had graduated and was off doing law school or something in another state. They kept up with each other on social media for a while, but eventually that eroded too. Come to think of it, Tucker can’t remember the last time he saw York post anything. He checks York’s Instagram out of idle curiosity and the last post is from a couple years ago. Same goes for Twitter and Facebook.

Tucker leans back in his desk chair and stares down at his phone, one finger tapping his upper lip. Can’t hurt to send a text, he thinks. Just a quick “hey man, what’s up?” Worst that can happen is York doesn’t respond. He probably doesn’t even have the same number anymore, anyway.

He sends the text off quickly, almost without thinking about it, and leaves the phone on his desk. For a few tight minutes Tucker expects an answering buzz, but there’s nothing, and then he has to get back to work and eventually forgets about it. Oh well, not a big deal.

When he wakes up the next morning he has a response from York, sent at 2:32 a.m. _Hey Tucker,_ it reads. _Long time no see. Wanna grab a beer?_

\--

Tucker walks into the bar slowly, scanning the patrons to see if York’s already here. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place, with brick walls and warm lights, just homey enough to not be bougie. And there’s only a handful of people, including -

York sits at the bar counter in profile to Tucker, drinking what looks like bourbon or whiskey. Ignoring the way his stomach clenches at the sight of him (familiar but strange, once so close and now so far), Tucker walks over. “York!”

Turning, York grins as wide and charming as ever, and slides off his barstool to pull Tucker into a hug. “Hey, man!” he says, and thumps Tucker on the back enthusiastically. He’s warm and solid and Tucker can’t help smiling as he hugs him back. “Damn, it’s been forever. How are you?”

Pulling back, Tucker puts his hands on York’s shoulders, looking him over. The past twelve years are clear on his face, all his college freshness carved away. Bronze, now, instead of gold. A few days’ worth of stubble dusts his chin, but it only accentuates the hard lines of his cheeks and jaw. He’s dressed casually, dark jeans and a leather jacket layered over a beige hoodie. And he’s got an ear piercing, a small bright green triangle in his left earlobe. “Good, dude,” says Tucker. “How about you?”

York grins and shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. “Oh, you know,” he says, sitting back down. “Hey, what’re you drinking?”

Tucker orders a beer, which York insists on putting on his tab. As he drinks, Tucker can’t help studying York, looking for the minute differences. He talks the same, laughs the same, with all the little mannerisms Tucker remembers. But the tense set of his shoulders is new, and there are the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “So tell me, what’ve you been up to?” York asks, swirling his second drink around in his glass (whiskey). “You’re looking good.”

“Yeah?” Tucker can’t help laughing a little, because the older he gets the more he looks like his dad, especially now that he wears glasses all the time. “I’m not sure about the beard, I’m trying it out.”

York winks, says with that old warmth, “I like it.”

Taking a drink of beer, Tucker ignores the way his stomach twists pleasantly. “Anyway, I haven’t been doing all that much,” he says. “Living that nine to five life, you know?”

“Yeah? What’re you doing?”

“I’m the director of marketing for a little software company.”

“Oh, damn, dude, director?” says York.

Tucker snorts. “When I say little, it’s like, twenty people. I’ve got one other person in my department.”

“Oh, haha.” York sips whiskey, the amber liquid only a few shades darker than his skin. “Still, that’s pretty cool.”

Shrugging, Tucker says, “I guess. What about you?”

York laughs tiredly and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t even know, man… Dropped out of law school. Went backpacking across Europe with Tex for a month. Tried out a few things, none of them stuck.”

Tex is another friend who fell off the map entirely. “You see Tex often? How is she?”

“Not that often anymore, but yeah, she’s good, last time we talked.” York smiles a little, rueful. “I’ve been running a lot with her cousin lately, for work.”

All Tucker can remember about Tex’s cousins is that she has like five of them. “What’s your work?”

A brief, tired laugh huffs out of York. “I can’t tell you.”

Tucker stares at him. “Seriously?”

York nods.

“Damn, dude.” Tucker leans back with one elbow on the bar, taking another swig of beer. “Like, spy shit, or covert ops, or…?”

York just smiles and takes another drink. Okay, Tucker gets it, but _damn._ Not what he’d have expected. “What about your eye, how's that?” Tucker asks.

The lines around York’s mouth crease briefly. “Still blurry. Hurts when I read.”

“It looks better.” And it does, since the last time Tucker saw him, the vivid pink of scars faded into silvery white, though the cornea itself is clouded over almost completely.

York snorts. “Thanks.”

\--

“Welcome to my humble abode,” quips Tucker, flicking the apartment lights on. York steps in after him, surveying the front room. Tucker’s pretty proud of this place, actually; it’s a real apartment, not a lousy bachelor pad, and he’s keeping it up. Junior can have friends over to play Mario Kart and not be embarrassed by being poor. That counts for a lot.

“I like it,” says York, hands in his jeans pockets, and smiles at Tucker. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” Still warm from the buzz of a few beers, Tucker takes off his shoes and jacket, hangs up his keys, watching as York slowly paces around the front room.

He pauses at the mantelpiece, a small smile curling his lips at the photo of Junior in his basketball uniform. “This your kid?”

“Yeah.” Tucker grins proudly, walking over to join York. “He’s real good, too, they won the district championship last year.”

“Is he here now?” asks York, glancing around the apartment.

“Nah, he’s staying with Wash and Carolina, they look after him sometimes when I can’t or even if I just need a break. It’s a goddamn lifesaver, honestly.”

York glances over at Tucker, his gaze flicking down to his left hand where there’s no ring. “What about his mother?”

“She bailed,” says Tucker shortly. He’s not going to get into it beyond that.

“Oh,” murmurs York. “Sorry.”

“Wash and Carolina are way cooler than her, anyway.” Tucker wants to jokingly-but-actually-serious ask York for tips on starting a threesome, because the way Wash and Carolina have been looking at him lately is giving him ideas, but the words die in his mouth when he sees the expression on York’s face. He’s gazing at the photos on the mantelpiece again, not just the one of Junior but of Tucker and Junior together, the two of them plus Wash and Carolina, the whole group of friends arm in arm and laughing. Any trace of warmth on York’s face is gone, replaced by a drawn, hungry look, almost wistful. “Dude,” says Tucker quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t fucking know, man,” York mutters.

Stepping closer, Tucker puts a light hand on York’s back. York sighs, leaning minutely into his touch. “What’s up?” asks Tucker.

Arms folded across his chest, York sighs again, still staring at the photo of Tucker and Wash and Carolina. “Nothing,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just. You know. It’s been rough lately.”

“Why?”

York’s short laugh is tired and humorless. “I can’t tell you that, either.”

Tucker doesn’t know what to say to that so he kind of just rubs up and down York’s back, a strange ache in his heart. Reaching up, he massages at the back of York’s neck, and York groans and drops his head. “How can I help?” asks Tucker quietly.

York’s jaw hardens and his gaze grows distant. “You can’t,” he answers, even quieter.

“Not even for a night?”

A shudder ripples over York’s shoulders. Tucker lets his hand slide down the back of his neck, over York’s far shoulder, slowly drawing York in towards him. The way York leans into him stirs heat inside Tucker, slow and deep and pulling on old memories, and he can faintly smell York, leather and human musk.

“I shouldn’t stay,” murmurs York, but he makes no move to leave.

“Why?” Tucker rubs up and down his bicep. “You got the long arm of the law after you?” York flashes him a brief, alarmed look, and a chill runs down Tucker’s spine. “Holy shit, dude, I was joking,” he says faintly. “Like, for real…?”

York sighs again, relaxing into Tucker’s side. “Kind of,” he says. “It’s complicated. No one’s coming after me right now, don’t worry.”

His face is very close to Tucker’s, close enough that Tucker can see all the individual stubble hairs. “Stay the night,” murmurs Tucker, forehead touching York’s temple. “With me. For… I dunno, old time’s sake.”

The corners of his mouth turn up. “We were pretty good together, huh.”

“Dude.” Tucker turns to face York, pulling him in close again. “We were fucking phenomenal.” And he leans in and kisses him.

It’s like they never fell apart, Tucker slipping into the push and pull of kissing York that he still knows so well. York groans quietly and grabs Tucker’s waist, pressing up close to work his lips against Tucker’s. When Tucker pulls York towards his bedroom, there’s a brief moment where York seems like he wants to pull away, and then he surrenders into Tucker with a gasp, fingers digging into Tucker’s hips.

They stumble into the bedroom together, Tucker just managing to put his glasses down before York tugs him back in for another hungry kiss. York’s lips are rough and warm under Tucker’s, his stubble catching on Tucker’s beard. When Tucker strips York’s leather jacket off he finds York’s body under his hands has changed too, the toned bulk of college replaced by lean wiry muscle. But he doesn’t comment on it.

York doesn’t talk either as he unbuttons Tucker’s shirt, their breathing between kisses loud in the semi-dark. He pulls Tucker’s shirt away, tugs Tucker’s undershirt off over his head, and his hands slide down over Tucker’s chest, leaving trails of warmth behind them. Tucker closes his eyes and leans in, damn, he’d forgotten how good York is, the way each kiss twists inside him like molding clay.

The hoodie comes off of York too, his cotton t-shirt worn soft under Tucker’s fingers. As York draws Tucker over to the bed, stepping backwards until he sits down suddenly, Tucker pulls the t-shirt up and off. Sliding onto York’s lap, Tucker leans back into kiss him, and as his hands rake down York’s ribs he feels rough scar tissue, and freezes.

“Oh,” says York into Tucker’s mouth, very quietly. “Heh.”

Tucker leans over to turn on the bedside lamp but York grabs his wrist. “It’s, um. It’s not as bad as it looks,” says York.

After a moment when York doesn’t release him, Tucker says, “Can I see?”

York swallows and nods, and lets go of Tucker’s wrist. Stretching over, Tucker turns on the lamp, and yellow light fills the room. It runs over York like a golden glaze, over the chiseled sharpness of his face and the long lean lines of his chest, over the ropey scar stretching halfway across his abdomen…

As much as he shouldn’t stare, Tucker can’t help it. “Dude,” he whispers. “What _happened_?”

“Shrapnel,” says York, way too casually. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

“What the fuck were you doing that there was _shrapnel_?”

York winces apologetically. “I can’t really tell -”

“- tell me that either,” finishes Tucker. “Jesus Christ, all right.” And it’s not the only scar on him, either. A few faint lines cross his knuckles, and the circular mark on his shoulder is almost certainly a healed bullet wound. “Does Tex know about this?”

The look York gives him is unfathomable. “She was there, actually. Would have been a lot worse if she wasn’t.”

“ _York._ ”

Tipping his forehead against Tucker’s, York cups Tucker’s jaw in his hand, lips brushing his. “Tucker,” he breathes, and Tucker swallows hard, his dick stirring in his pants. “For tonight, let’s - let’s not…”

“Let’s not what?”

York pauses, his thumb on Tucker’s cheek. “Worry about that,” he finally murmurs. “For old time’s sake.” And he pulls Tucker into a kiss.

And as much as Tucker wants to protest that they _should_ worry about that if York’s getting shot at, what the _fuck_ , but it’s getting harder and harder to think about anything except York’s touch on his skin and the feel of his lips and the raspiness of his breathing. Tucker pushes York back down into the bed, York arching underneath him, and gets one hand down to unzip his pants and relieve some of the constraint on his aching dick. “Hey,” he murmurs in York’s ear. “You still got that praise kink, baby?”

York groan-laughs, his hips jerking up into Tucker’s. “I think so.”

“You think so?” Tucker kisses down York’s neck to make him squirm. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

“Way too long ago, dude,” York murmurs, strained. “Christ…”

“You okay if I fuck you?”

York full-body shivers. Pulling back, Tucker looks down at York to see him gazing back up at him with lips parted and pupil blown wide. “Yeah,” says York hoarsely. “Yeah, take it easy at first, though.”

“Whatever you want, babe,” murmurs Tucker, and presses down to kiss York again.

It keeps hitting Tucker, how things are the same and yet different, a motion as familiar as stretching York face-down on the blankets beneath him and yet York is different with his sharp bones and scars marring his golden skin. “How you doing?” mutters Tucker into York’s ear, sliding one lubricated finger into York. York hisses and groans, hips bucking upwards.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps.

“I’ve only just started.” Tucker leans in until his chest is pressed to York’s back, his one hand stretched back to work further into York, the other sliding around to cup York’s throat. “You’re gonna feel so good, baby, by the time I’m done with you, gonna feel so happy and fucked…”

York laughs breathlessly, propped up on his elbows and pushing back onto Tucker. When Tucker adds a second finger York groans again, clenching around him. “Hey, you know what?” says Tucker in York’s ear. “I think those scars look fucking sexy.”

Another shiver hits York. “Really?” he pants.

“God, yeah, you look like such a fucking _badass,_ goddamn, make me rock hard just looking at you, so fucking gorgeous -”

Groaning, York drops his head to his forearms. “Ngah,” he manages.

Tucker keeps working at him until they’re both sweaty and panting for breath, York rocking back into each thrust of Tucker’s fingers. “Tucker,” gasps York, his thighs shaking. “Tucker, please -”

Leaning in, Tucker nips at the shell of York’s ear. “You want something, baby?”

Snarling, York manages, “Fuck me -”

He doesn’t need telling twice. Tucker slides into York with a hand on York’s hip to keep him steady and York groans low and drawn-out, shuddering. “Damn,” breathes Tucker, voice tight, all the breath gone from his lungs, “you feel so good, you look so good, you _are_ so good -”

York whimpers and shivers and Tucker rocks into him, thrusting slow and steady. It doesn’t take long before Tucker is panting loudly as well, his whole abdomen clenching, heat pooling in his groin. “Oh, God,” he gasps, getting a hand down to wrap around York’s cock, making him moan. “Ha, yeah, just like that, oh God, York, _York -_ ”

York comes first, spurting hot and wet over Tucker’s hand. Pounding into him, thighs sticky with sweat slamming into his, Tucker grasps at York and groans and tips over the edge mid-thrust, orgasm catching him off-guard and making him dizzy with the force of his pleasure.

Breathing hard, Tucker slumps over, his forehead on the back of York’s neck. York’s hair is damp and dark with sweat, and he trembles under Tucker. “Hey, babe,” whispers Tucker, kissing light and clumsy at York’s shoulder. “Feeling good?”

York’s only answer is a heavy sigh. He pulls off Tucker slowly - Tucker groans a little at the feeling on his oversensitive dick - and collapses into the bedding. “Yeah,” he says, muffled. “Thanks.”

Tucker sits back on his heels, caressing down the long curve of York’s back, over the bare curve of his ass. “Anytime.”

\--

Tucker blinks to awakeness in the half-dark, groggy. The bed beside him is empty but still warm, York moving around the room. “Wh-huh?” manages Tucker, rubbing at his eyes.

“Sorry,” whispers York, pausing in pulling on his shirt. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Groaning, Tucker pushes himself up against the pillows, reaching for his phone. 5:40 a.m. “Dude…”  

“I gotta go,” murmurs York, lightly touching Tucker on the shoulder as he passes by him, and he pulls his jacket on. “Sorry.”

“Stay,” blurts Tucker.

“I can’t, my ride’s here -”

“No, I mean -” Tucker clears his throat, sits all the way up. “Here. With me and Junior and Wash and Carolina... Permanently. Don’t go off and do… whatever you’re going to do.”

York laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, gray pre-dawn light softly tracing the side of his face, highlighting his scars. “I wish I could,” he says. “I do. But…”

“So stay.”

A pained look crosses York’s face before softening into something tender and wistful, and he sits down next to Tucker. “Do me a favor,” he says quietly. “If you see my name in the news, don’t believe what they say about me, okay?”

Staring at him, Tucker swallows hard, ice in the pit of his stomach. “What are you doing?” he whispers. “York, tell me -”

“I can’t -”

“I don’t care. Tell me. Please.”

York winces, eyes closing, and he leans his forehead against Tucker’s. “You’ll know when it happens,” he breathes, voice shaking. “I’m saving the world.” And he kisses Tucker, so quick and light Tucker can barely lean into it before York pulls away and gets to his feet, heading to the door. “See you around, Tucker.”

“Is that a promise?” demands Tucker.

Pausing in the doorway, York smiles a little, the lines of his eye scars bunching. “Maybe.” And with that he’s gone.

Tucker waits until he hears the front door shut. Getting to his feet, he grabs his glasses and hurries over to the window, pressing his forehead to the cool glass to peer down at the street below. A sleek black car idles by the curb, and Tucker can just see the driver - a man, with fair skin and dark hair and a narrow face, wearing glasses. As Tucker watches, York strides up to the car, quickly opening the passenger door and sliding into the seat. He briefly exchanges conversation with the driver and then the car pulls away into the street and Tucker is left at the window, one palm pressed against the glass and a strange, hollow ache in his heart.


End file.
